He stopped; his eye had suddenly lighted on Emily. She was huddled in a frightened attitude behind her mother’s chair, and the light was strong on her face. Her father stared. “What’s the matter with that child’s eyes?” he demanded suddenly. “They look like burnt holes in a blanket!” Mrs. Carter, following his look, suddenly noticed her daughter’s eyelashes and nose. In an illuminating flash she remembered that first night in Emily’s room. “Oh, Emmy!” she gasped. “You’ve painted your eyelashes!” Emily clung to the back of her chair. “I had to, mama. They’re horrid and white.” “Good Lord, that minx is teaching my daughter to paint her face! Mama, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Can’t you watch your own children?” bellowed Mr. Carter, beside himself. “Emmy, I’m ashamed!” Poor Mrs. Carter sat gasping, her mouth open. “I never dreamed--what’s that on your nose?” Emily seized her handkerchief and began to rub the offending feature. “It’s nothing, mama--just a little liquid powder.” “You march up-stairs and wash your face!” said her father. “Hear me? Don’t let me catch you painting up like that--singing doll!” Emily began to cry. “It’s--it’s nothing, papa. Everybody does it. The girls think I look so nice.” “Wash your face!” shouted her father. “March up and wash your face!” “I don’t want to!” sobbed Emily. “The girls say my eyes look twice as----” Mr. Carter seized her by the shoulder and turned her toward the door. “Want me to wash your face?” he asked her grimly. “No? I thought not. Well, then, you march!” Emily, sobbing loudly, marched. They could hear her stumbling up-stairs, crying as she went. “Oh, papa, you were awful!” Mrs. Carter wiped her own eyes. “The poor child!” “Do you suppose that I’m going to let my daughter paint her face?” Mr. Carter fairly bellowed. “I reckon I’ve got enough in a daughter-in-law! I’ll see to Emmy myself, if you can’t!” “Johnson, you know I didn’t notice.” Mr. Carter emitted another roar, and finally threw himself into a chair and thrust his feet out. “What did that fool William do?” “You mean to-night?” Mrs. Carter dried her eyes. “He just met us at the door. He was so white he scared me, and he took Fanchon off in a taxi--in that scandalous dress! Said he’d give her a supper out to-night. I’m afraid you’ve done it this time, Johnson. What did you do to the poor boy?” “Poor donkey! I told him what I thought of that woman--called by my name, too--a woman dressing like one of those yellow East Indian dancing-girls--that’s what I told him.” “Johnson!” “I did! What do you s’pose the congregation thought? By George, it made me hot all over. Did you see her legs?” “You mean her stockings? They were a little startling. I told her so before we started.” “Startling? My word.”