Myra found time to read her woman's magazine from cover to cover, in the course of the month. Some things she read more than once—those frankly impossible stories in which the heroines were always beautiful and always loved. Myra had never known a heroine; the women of her acquaintance were neither beautiful nor adored; and were probably quite comfortably unaware of this lack.
"I'm getting notional," Myra accused herself fearfully. The Family Doctor Book, a learned and ancient tome, confirmed these suspicions. It treated of this, and related matters, with a large assurance, like a trusty confidant.
"Funny how long Mother stays in her room!" wondered Nell.
"Mebbe she's fell asleep. Old people need all the sleep they can get. It's mostly so broken."
"I'm agoing to see!" deposed Nell.
Myra had never invaded that withdrawn privacy. But Nell, with her grenadier step, went swiftly and threw open the door.
"What on earth! Mother!"
Old Mrs. Bray's voice streamed quavering out, "Oh, Nellie! Don't scold me! Myry!—"
Somehow Myra was there—past the affronted Nell in the door. In the instant silence they made a strange tableau.
Old Mrs. Bray in her fine gray-and-lavender gown was seated before her little wash-hand-stand. The floral pitcher in its floral bowl had been set to one side on the floor. What covered the towel-protected top of the stand, was Nellie's looted treasure.