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 marsh. Roger stopped to-day and remarked upon the birches.

'They're like young girls in green chiffon in wading,' he said to Sheilah, as he had to Cicely years ago.

Sheilah flashed him one of her brightest smiles and then turned meditatively toward the birches. 'No, not young girls—little girls. Their legs are so spindly and straight.'

How different from Cicely! Oh, really she was too good to be true, too absolutely satisfying to be made of flesh and blood. He was possessed with a sudden desire to squeeze her hard, as if she, too, were a little girl, who would squirm and want to get away, and preen herself afterward like a ruffled bird.

That night Sheilah dressed three times for dinner. The gray chiffon made her look so pale, the green chiffon made her look so gray. Standing before her mirror, the two discarded dresses cast aside, she gazed at herself critically. Her appearance had not been a matter of great importance to Sheilah since her marriage. She touched her hair, and sighed. It used to be rather nice. At least people used to say so. But it was spoiled now—the gold all gone to silver; the clear, shell-pink of her cheeks to faded bois-de-rose; and when she smiled, fans of tiny