o' wild like." And when the new bread was on trial at the family board and we were all trying to ignore a suspicion of moistness, Catherine settled its fate with one laconic stab. It was too gummy for her.
The seeming brilliant idea occurred to me last fall, on economical thoughts intent, of having the best bed-room rug reduced and made over for the room next in order of merit. A somewhat oily gentleman, whose specialty appears to be the rehabilitation of discouraged floor-coverings, appeared on the scene and entered into my plan with enthusiasm. He said it could be done without a doubt and the pattern so successfully carried along that the most observant eye would not detect the spots where the worn places had been removed. This cheered me, of course, and I told him to go ahead, acceding to his estimate for this artistic transformation in spite of the generosity to himself it so plainly evidenced. I was still in the glow of my capital idea when the rug came back, and tried to gloss over certain peculiarities it revealed when laid. "What do you think of the rug, Catherine?" I asked by way of conversation and hoping for encouragement.
But Catherine is addicted to the truth. She
