Emma McChesney's shrine. Books and magazines assumed the proportions
of a library. One could see the hand of T. A. Buck, Junior, in the
cases of mineral water, quarts of wine, cunning cordials and tiny
bottles of liqueur that stood in convivial rows on the closet shelf
and floor. There came letters, too, and telegrams with such phrases as
"let nothing be left undone" and "spare no expense" under T. A. Buck,
Junior's, signature.

So Emma McChesney climbed the long, weary hill of illness and pain,
reached the top, panting and almost spent, rested there, and began the
easy descent on the other side that led to recovery and strength. But
something was lacking. That sunny optimism that had been Emma
McChesney's most valuable asset was absent. The blue eyes had lost
their brave laughter. A despondent droop lingered in the corners of
the mouth that had been such a rare mixture of firmness and
tenderness. Even the advent of Fat Ed Meyers, her keenest competitor,
and representative of the Strauss Sans-silk Company, failed to awaken
in her the proper spirit of antagonism. Fat Ed Meyers sent a bunch of
violets that devastated the violet beds at the local greenhouse. Emma
McChesney regarded them listlessly when the nurse lifted them out of
their tissue wrappings. But the name on the card brought a tiny smile
to her lips.

"He says he'd like to see you, if you feel able," said Miss Haney, the
nurse, when she came up from dinner.

Emma McChesney thought a minute. "Better tell him it's catching," she
said.

"He knows it isn't," returned Miss Haney. "But if you don't want him,