“I think Labour Day is an awfully funny holiday,” remarked Patty. “It doesn’t seem to mean anything. It doesn’t commemorate anybody’s birth or death or heroism.” “It’s like Bank Holiday in England,” said her father. “Merely to give the poor, tired business man a rest.” “Well, you don’t specially need one, Daddy; you’ve recreated a lot this summer; and it’s done you good,—you’re looking fine.” “Isn’t he?” said Nan, smiling at the finely tanned face of her husband. The Fairfields were down at “The Pebbles,” their summer home at the seashore, and Patty, who had spent much of the season in New England, had come down for a fortnight with her parents ...
