exchange bulletins in a corner. On passing the Whalen house one is uncomfortably aware of shadowy forms lurking in the windows, and of parlor curtains that are agitated for no apparent cause. 

 Therefore it was with a groan that I rose and prepared to follow Norah into the house. Something in my eye caused her to turn at the very door. “Don’t you dare!” she hissed; then, banishing the warning scowl from her face, and assuming a near-smile, she entered the room and I followed miserably at her heels. 

 The Whalens rose and came forward effusively; Mrs. Whalen, plump, dark, voluble; Sally, lean, swarthy, vindictive; Flossie, pudgy, powdered, over-dressed. They eyed me hungrily. I felt that they were searching my features for signs of incipient insanity. 

 “Dear, DEAR girl!” bubbled the billowy Flossie, kissing the end of my nose and fastening her eye on my ringless left hand. 

 Sally contented herself with a limp and fishy handshake. She and I were sworn enemies in our school-girl days, and a baleful gleam still lurked in Sally’s eye. Mrs. Whalen bestowed on me a motherly hug that enveloped me in an atmosphere of liquid face-wash, strong perfumery and fried lard. Mrs. Whalen is a famous cook. Said she: 

 “We’ve been thinking of calling ever since you were brought home, but dear me! you’ve been looking so poorly I just said to the girls, wait till the poor thing feels more like seeing her old friends. Tell me, how are you feeling now?” 

 The three sat forward in their chairs in attitudes of tense waiting. 

 I resolved that if err I must it should be on the side of safety. I turned to sister Norah. 

 “How am I feeling anyway, Norah?” I guardedly inquired. 

 Norah’s face was a study. “Why Dawn dear,” she said, sugar-sweet, “no doubt you know better than I. But I’m sure that you are wonderfully improved—almost your old self, in fact. Don’t you think she looks splendid, Mrs. Whalen?” 

 The three Whalens tore their gaze from my blank countenance to exchange a series of meaning looks. 

 “I suppose,” purred Mrs. Whalen, “that your awful trouble was the real cause of your—a-a-a-sickness, worrying about it and grieving as you must have.” 

 She pronounces it with a capital T, and I know she means Peter. I hate 

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