of looking for nice things in people, a good deal as I looked for things I could understand in the book. Anyway, it seemed as if folks were nicer to me, and Mother's face got to smoothing out when I came in, instead of tightening up. I hadn't realized before how many of the lines in her face meant me. It was good to see them smooth out. I wasn't altogether an angel, though,—not by any means.
That day, when I reached home, I passed Mother in the hall. "Chester," she said, "I wish you'd go into Gordon's this afternoon, when you're down town, and get me some samples of wall-paper. I thought I could manage to go down this week and select it, but I haven't been able to find the time."
"What color?" I asked.
"Well, I think blue would be nice, wouldn't it? It's for the southwest room."
"Why don't you get yellow—plain yellow, with a brown frieze? The furniture is oak, isn't it?"
Mother looked pleased. "I believe that would be better," she said.
"Not bright yellow," I said, "—just a sort of creamy yellow, that will go well with the brown."
