"I think Labour Day is an awfully funny holiday," remarked Patty. "It doesn't seem tomean 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, tiredbusiness man a rest.""Well, you don't specially need one, Daddy; you've recreated a lot this summer; and it'sdone 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, andPatty, who had spent much of the season in New England, had come down for a fortnightwith her parents. Labour Day was early this year and the warm September sun was morelike that of midsummer.The place was looking lovely, and Patty herself made a pretty picture, as she lounged ina big couch hammock on the wide veranda. She had on a white summer frock and a silksweater of an exquisite shade of salmon pink. Her silk stockings were of the same shade, and her white pumps were immaculat
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