"Beautiful, ain't they?" Miss Riordon twirled the white garment in her
hand. "They're the very newest thing. You'll notice they're made up
slightly hobble, with a French back, and high waist-line in the front.
Last season kimono sleeves was all the go, but they're not used this
season. This one--"

"Take them away!" screamed Emma McChesney hysterically. "Take them
away! Take them away!" And buried her face in her trembling white
hands.

Miss Riordon stared. Then she slammed the cover of the case, rose, and
started toward the door. But before she reached it, and while the sick
woman's sobs were still sounding hysterically the door flew open to
admit a tall, slim, miraculously well-dressed young man. The next
instant Emma McChesney's lace nightgown was crushed against the top of
a correctly high-cut vest, and her tears coursed, unmolested, down the
folds of an exquisitely shaded lavender silk necktie.

"Jock!" cried Emma McChesney; and then, "Oh, my son, my son, my
beautiful boy!" like a woman in a play.

Jock was holding her tight, and patting her shoulder, and pressing his
healthy, glowing cheek close to hers that was so gaunt and pale.

"I got seven wires, all at the same time. They'd been chasing me for
days, up there in the woods. I thought I'd never get here."

And at that a wonderful thing happened to Emma McChesney. She lifted
her face, and showed dimples where lines had been, smiles where tears