it out of reach on the corner of a picture-frame, slipped a lemon-drop inside a flimsy blouse, and enjoyed the music of shrill little shrieks and high squeals. The Belden girls were always at home at six o'clock. It was a great nuisance, since dancing in the afternoon had become so popular, but it was their father's wish, and almost no sacrifice was too great to avoid his displeasure.
To-night when Marcus came in, although all the girls were at home, there wasn't a spark of playfulness about him. Ada had again disregarded his orders. It was another of fate's jokes, he supposed, that Ada should be the daughter to cause him more trouble than the other three all put together. Ada had been the last chance that he and Mary had had for a boy. As a child she had been his favorite, too—actually companionable to him, in the pig-tail stage. And now she had become an irritation—a problem. He provided her with every luxury, but she wasn't contented. It wasn't enough. She always wanted something more—trips to Europe, courses in Current Events, fifty-dollar daubs in oil paint, and actually, if you'll believe it, a Century Dictionary a year ago! The other three had been satisfied with their one year of boarding-school, but not Ada. There was a regular scene when she had wanted to go to college a year ago. Of
