before I met you, when Jock was all I had in the world, I
worked and fought and saved that he might have the proper start, the
proper training, and environment. And I did succeed in giving him
those things. Well, as I looked at him there to-day I saw him, not as
my son, my property that was going out of my control into the hands of
another woman, but as a link in the great chain that I had helped to
forge--a link as strong and sound and perfect as I could make it. I
saw him, not as my boy, Jock McChesney, but as a unit. When I am gone
I shall still live in him, and he in turn will live in his children.
There! I've muddled it--haven't I?--as I said I would. But I think"--
And she looked into her husband's glowing eyes.--"No; I'm sure you
understand. And when I die, T. A.----"

"You, Emma!" And he held her close, and then held her off to look at
her through quizzical, appreciative eyes. "Why, girl, I can't imagine
you doing anything so passive."

In the busy year that followed, anyone watching Emma McChesney Buck as
she worked and played and constructed, and helped others to work and
play and construct, would have agreed with T. A. Buck. She did not
seem a woman who was looking at life objectively. As she went about
her home in the evening, or the office, the workroom, or the showrooms
during the day, adjusting this, arranging that, smoothing out snarls,
solving problems of business or household, she was very much alive,
very vital, very personal, very electric. In that year there came to
her many letters from Jock and Grace--happy letters, all of them, some
with an undertone of great seriousness, as is fitting when two people
are readjusting their lives. Then, in spring, came the news of the
baby. The telegram came to Emma as she sat in her office near the
close of a busy day. As she read it and reread it, the slip of paper
became a misty yellow with vague lines of blue dancing about on it;
then it became a blur of nothing in particular, as Emma's tears fell on
it in a little shower of joy and pride and wonder at the eternal
miracle.

Then she dried her eyes, mopped the telegram and her lace jabot
impartially, went across the hall and opened the door marked "T. A.
BUCK."

T. A. looked up from his desk, smiled, held out a hand.

"Girl or boy?"

"Girl, of course," said Emma tremulously, "and her name is Emma
McChesney."

T. A. stood up and put an arm about his wife's shoulders.

"Lean on me, gra