of-town buyers.

Those friendly Middle-Western persona showed dismay at her pale,
hollow-eyed appearance. They spoke to her of teaspoonfuls of olive-oil
taken thrice a day, of mountain air, of cold baths, and, above all, of
the advisability of leaving the road and taking an inside position. At
that Emma McChesney always showed signs of unmistakable irritation.

In September her son, Jock McChesney, just turned eighteen, went
blithely off to college, disguised as a millionaire's son in a blue
Norfolk, silk hose, flat-heeled shoes, correctly mounted walrus bag,
and next-week's style in fall hats. As the train glided out of the
great shed Emma McChesney had waved her handkerchief, smiling like
fury and seeing nothing but an indistinct blur as the observation
platform slipped around the curve. She had not felt that same
clutching, desolate sense of loss since the time, thirteen years
before, when she had cut off his curls and watched him march sturdily
off to kindergarten.

In October it was plain that spring skirts, instead of being full as
predicted, were as scant and plaitless as ever. That spelled gloom for
the petticoat business. It was necessary to sell three of the present
absurd style to make the profit that had come from the sale of one
skirt five years before.

The last week in November, tragedy stalked upon the scene in the death
at Marienbad of old T. A. Buck, Mrs. McChesney's stanch friend and
beloved employer. Emma McChesney had wept for him as one weeps at the
loss of a father.