took off her hat and smoothed her hair with light, deft fingers.
She turned a smiling face toward Jock and Grace standing there in the
doorway.

"Now don't bother, dear. If you knew how I love having that little
shirt to look at! And I've such things in my trunk! Wait till you see
them."

So she possessed her soul in patience for one hour, two hours. At the
end of the second hour, a little wail went up. Grace vanished down the
hall. Emma, her heart beating very fast, followed her. A moment later
she was bending over a very pink morsel with very blue eyes and she was
saying, over and over in a rapture of delightful idiocy:

"Say hello to your gran-muzzer, yes her is! Say, hello, granny!" And
her longing arms reached down to take up her namesake.

"Not now!" Grace said hastily. "We never play with her just before
feeding-time. We find that it excites her, and that's bad for her
digestion."

"Dear me!" marveled Emma. "I don't remember worrying about Jock's
digestion when he was two and a half months old!"

It was thus that Emma McChesney Buck, for many years accustomed to
leadership, learned to follow humbly and in silence. She had always
been the orbit about which her world revolved. Years of brilliant
success, of triumphant execution, had not spoiled her, or made her
offensively dictatorial. But they had taught her a certain
self-confidence; had accustomed her to a degree of deference from
others. Now she was the humblest of the satellites revolving about
this sun of the household. She learned to tiptoe when small Emma
McChesney was sleeping. She learned that the modern mother does not
approve of the holding of a child in one's arms, no matter how those
arms might be aching to feel the frail weight of the soft, sweet body.
She who had brought a child into the world, who had had to train that
child alone, had raised him single-handed, had educated him, denied
herself for him, made a man of him, now found herself all ignorant of
twentieth century child-raising methods. She learned strange things
about barley-water and formulae and units and olive oil, and orange
juice and ounces and farina, and bath-thermometers and blue-and-white
striped nurses who view grandmothers with a coldly disapproving and
pitying eye.

She watched the bathing-process for the first time with wonder as frank
as it was unfeigned.

"And I thought I was a modern woman!" she marveled. "When I used to
bathe Jock I tested the