tennis racket to her old nurse; her Indian clubs to the Olympic
Games Committee; her early water-colour sketches to the Nation. We
divided up all her goods. Everybody got something appropriate. It was a
good will. And when I suggested that there should be no immediate
charge, but that the cost should be paid out of the estate in due
season, Miranda very cheerfully agreed; and even went so far as to
express a generous hope that I should outlive her.

* * * * *

THE MAN OF THE MOMENT.

_January_ 23, 1914.

Who is the happy tradesman? Who is he?

I mean in this peculiarly horrible weather?

The chemist.

There is no happier tradesman than he. He stands all day long, and a
large part of the night, among his bottles and boxes and jars and
jarlets and pots and potlets and tabloids and capsules, selling remedies
for colds and coughs and sore throats and rheumatism and neuralgia.

The colder it is the more he is on velvet, the chemist.

In America he is called a "druggist," but "chemist" is better, even
though it confuses a mere peddler of ammoniated quinine with Sir WILLIAM
RAMSAY and Sir WILLIAM CROOKES.

The old-fashioned spelling was "chymist," and there are still one or two
shops in London where this spelling holds, but I think it's affectation.

Meanwhile the chemist (or chymist) is coining money.

Not even his lavish expenditure of clean white paper and red, red
sealing wax, and the gas that burns always to melt that red, red
sealing-wax, can make his profits look ridiculous.

Not even the constant loss of small articles from the counter, such as
manicure sticks, and digestive tablets, and jujubes, and face cream and
smokers' cachous, which never ought to be spread about there at all,
because they are so easily conveyed by the dishonest customer into
pocket or muff, can seriously upset the smiling side of the chemist's
ledger.

Every night, when at last, laden with gold, he climbs to his bed, he
hopes piously that the morrow may be colder.

And it usually is.

He will soon be a millionaire.

It is only a warm wind that can blow the chemist no good.

I wish I was a chemist, but it is now too late.

Still, I wish I was a chemist.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Aunt._ "I can't think of letting you two girls go alone,
and as I shall not be able to go your Uncle will look after you."

_Niece._ "That's very kind of him, Auntie; but I hope y