"Architecture is such fine work to do at home!" they had both agreed.

"Here you have your north light--your big table--plenty of room for work! You will grow famouser and famouser," he had lovingly insisted.

And she had answered, "I fear I shall be too contented, dear, to want to be famous." That was only some year and a-half ago,--but Isabel, lying there by her sleeping husband and sleeping child, was stark awake and only by assertion happy.

She was thinking, persistently, of dust.

She loved a delicate cleanliness.