“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 …