Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. "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. Labour Day was early this year and the warm September sun was more like that of midsummer. The place was looking lovely, and Patty herself made a pretty picture, as she lounged in a big couch hammock on the wide veranda. She had on a white summer frock and a silk sweater of an exquisite shade of salmon pink. Her silk stockings were of the same shade, and her white pumps were immaculate. Mr. Fairfield looked at the dainty feet, hanging over the edge of the hammock, and said, teasingly, "I've heard, Patty, that there are only two kinds of women: those who have small feet, and those who wear white shoes."