than he that his comfort for the day depended largely on some unknown reporter whom he had never met. If this unseen individual had done his work properly and as befitted the importance of his subject, Mrs. McCall's mood for the next twelve hours would be as uniformly sunny as it was possible for it to be. But sometimes the fellows scamped their job disgracefully; and once, on a day which lived in Mr. McCall's memory, they had failed to make a report at all.
To-day, he noted with relief, all seemed to be well. The report actually was on the front page, an honour rarely accorded to his wife's utterances. Moreover, judging from the time it took her to read the thing, she had evidently been reported at length.
"Good, my dear?" he ventured. "Satisfactory?"
"Eh?" Mrs. McCall smiled meditatively. "Oh, yes,, excellent. They have used my photograph, too. Not at all badly reproduced."
"Splendid!" said Mr. McCall.
Mrs. McCall gave a sharp shriek, and the paper fluttered from her hand.
"My dear!" said Mr. McCall, with concern.
His wife had recovered the paper, and was reading with burning eyes. A bright wave of colour had flowed over her masterful features. She was breathing as stertorously as ever her son Washington had done on the previous night.
"Washington!"
A basilisk glare shot across the table and turned the long boy to stone—all except his mouth, which opened feebly.
"Washington! Is this true?"
