“Your head aches!” she exclaimed. “Let me do something for it. And I’ve been making it worse with all my foolishness.”

“No, no; that’s all right,” he assured her. “I tell you what we’ll do. I’ll lie down here a bit, and you play something for me. Something quiet. I get so tired down there in La Salle Street, Laura, you don’t know.”

And while he stretched out at full length upon the couch, his wife, at the organ, played the music she knew he liked best⁠—old songs, “Daisy Dean,” “Lord Lovell,” “When Stars Are in the Quiet Sky,” and “Open Thy Lattice to Me.”

When at length she paused, he nodded his head with pleasure.

“That’s pretty,” he said. “Ah, that is