me."

Her arm was linked through Theodore's. Her hand was on his.
Her head was up. Her chin was thrust out, and she never
knew how startlingly she resembled the Molly Brandeis who
used to march so bravely down Norris street on her way to
Brandeis' Bazaar. She was facing a situation, and she
recognized it. There was about her an assurance, a
composure, a blithe capability that imparted itself to the
three bewildered and helpless ones in her charge. Theodore
felt it, and the strained look in his face began to lift
just a little. The heavy-witted peasant woman felt it, and
trudged along, cheerfully. The baby in her arms seemed to
sense it, and began to converse volubly and unintelligibly
with the blue uniformed customs inspector.

They were out of the great shed in an incredibly short time.
Fanny seemed equal to every situation. She had taken the
tube to Hoboken, but now she found a commodious open car,
and drove a shrewd bargain with the chauffeur. She bundled
the three into it. Of the three, perhaps Theodore seemed
the most bewildered and helpless. He clung to his violin
and Fanny.

"I feel like an immigrant," he said. "Fan, you're a wonder.
You don't know how much you look and act like mother. I've
been watching you. It's startling."

Fanny laughed and took his hand, and held his hand up to her
breast, and crushed it there. "And you look like an