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that fall and winter whenever Roger Dallinger called at the apartment to leave a book for Sheilah he thought she might like, or inquire for the children during the four weeks when one after another each had an attack of influenza, and bring them some flowers, or a game, or a picture-puzzle; or, as he became acquainted with Felix, to present the work-bench in the dining-room with some new labor-saving device, he always left in Sheilah's heart that same strange feeling of singing—that same strange quivering sense of joy that expressed itself in a passionate desire on her part to be kinder and more generous to the children, kinder and more generous to Felix.

Although sometimes Roger stayed less than ten minutes, and often there was no chance to talk to him uninterruptedly and alone (the children came to delight in his society), still always it was as if he had lit a candle in her life that shed a warm rosy glow over all the plain homely details for hours afterward. Oh, surely his coming was right, was good! Surely Dr. Baird would approve. He made her a better mother, a better wife. Enriched her. Became