eyes lingered a full half minute longer on the totals of results of Professor Kenealy’s hog inoculations on Simon Jones’ farm at Washington, Iowa.

“My!” she protested. “You are too fortunate. You are sated with riches. Here is your Lady Boy, your ‘little haughty moon,’ and you haven’t even said, ‘Good morning, Little Lady Boy, was your sleep sweet and gentle?’“

And Dick Forrest forsook the statistical columns of Professor Kenealy’s inoculations, pressed his wife closer, kissed her, but with insistent right fore-finger maintained his place in the pages of the pamphlet.

Nevertheless, the very terms of her “reproof prevented him from asking what he should have asked — the