er little daughter, who was absorbed in the
pictures of a magazine, and said to herself that she was doing it all
for her child, more than for herself. Virginia must have a very
different kind of life from hers! Parentlike she yearned to graft upon
the young tree the heavy branch of her own worldly experience. And
perhaps Milly realized, also, that the world into which little Virginia
was rapidly growing would be a very different sort of place--especially
for women--from the one in which Milly Ridge had fluttered about with
untutored instincts and a dominating determination "to have a good
time...."

Tired at last with so much meditation, Milly bought a novel from the
newsboy,--"Clive Reinhard's Latest and Best"--_A Woman's Will_, and
buried herself in its pages.

IV

GOING INTO BUSINESS

"Ernestine," Milly announced gravely that first night after Virginia was
tucked in bed, "I've something important to say to you."

"What is it, dearie?" Ernestine inquired apprehensively.

The Laundryman had taken a half holiday to welcome her family home after
their prolonged vacation. She and the old colored cook--a great admirer
of Milly's--had decorated the dining-room with wild flowers and
contrived a birthday cake with eight candles for Virginia, who had
celebrated her nativity a few days previously. Ernestine had also
indulged in a quart of champagne, a wine of which Milly was very fond.
But like poor Ernestine, in whom thrift usually fought a losing battle
with generosity, she had compromised upon a native brand that the dealer
had said was "just as good as the imported kind," but which Milly had
tasted and left undrunk.... She had also put on her best dress, a much
grander affair of black silk than the rose-pink negligee, which Milly
had compelled her to bestow upon Amelia. And she had lighted the fire in
the living-room and all the wax candles, though it was still warm
outdoors and they had to open the street windows and endure the thunder
of the traffic.

Milly, although she had received all Ernestine's efforts graciously, had
been wearied by the noise,--the fierce song of New York,--and had been
serious and non-communicative since her arrival. Virginia, however, had
been eloquently happy to return to her own home, her own things, her own
bed, and her own Amelia and Ernestine, which had somewhat made up to the
Laundryman for Milly's indifference.

Now Milly stood in the middle of the room, looking straight