full beauty battery, such as I once saw Betty Schuyler show to Walter Butler, having but then received it from New York. And all I know, Lois, is that it was full of boxes, jars, and flasks, and smelled like a garden in late June. And if Mr. Hake has not chosen with discretion I shall go South and scalp him!”

“Euan, I adore you!”

“You adore your battery,” said I, not convinced.

“That, too. But you more than my mirrors, and my lip-red, and the lily lotion — more than my darling shifts and stays and shoon and gowns!� I had never dreamed I could accept them from you. But you had become so dear to me — and I could read you through and through — and found you so like myself — and it gave me a new