ho came to call yesterday!"

"_Oh!_" said the relieved Genevieve. "There's some mistake, of course.
If it's Cousin Emelene and Mrs.----"

She advanced into the hall and was confronted by two burly men with a
very large trunk between them.

"Which room?" said one of them in a bored and insolent voice.

"Oh, you must have come to the wrong house," Genevieve assured them with
her pretty, friendly smile.

She was so happy and so convinced of the essential rightness of a world
which had produced George Remington that she had a friendly smile for
every one, even for unshaven men who kept their battered derby hats
on their heads, had viciously smelling cigars in their mouths, and
penetrated to her sacred front hall with trunks which belonged somewhere
else.

"Isn't this G. L. Remington's house?" inquired one of the men, dropping
his end of the trunk and consulting a dirty slip of paper.

"Yes, it is," admitted Genevieve, thrilling at the thought that it was
also hers. "This is the place all right, then," said the man. He heaved
up his end of the trunk again, and said once more, "Which room?"

The repetition fell a little ominously on Genevieve's ear. What on earth
could be the matter?

She heard voices outside and craning her soft white neck, she saw Cousin
Emelene, with her gray kitten under one arm and a large suitcase in her
other hand, coming up the steps. There was a beatific expression in her
gentle, faded eyes, and her lips were quivering uncertainly. When she
caught sight of Genevieve's sweet face back of the bored expressmen, she
gave a little cry, ran forward, set down her suitcase and clasped her
young cousin in her arms.

"Oh Genevieve dear, that noble wonderful husband of yours! What have you
done to deserve such a man... out of this Age of Gold!"

This was a sentiment after Genevieve's own heart, but she found it
rather too vague to meet the present somewhat tense situation.

Cousin Emelene went on, clasping her at intervals, and talking very
fast. "I can hardly believe it! Now that my time of trial is all over
I don't mind telling you that I was growing embittered and cynical. All
those phrases my dear mother had brought me to believe, the sanctity of
the home, the chivalrous protection of men, the wicked folly of women
who leave the home to engage in fierce industrial struggle."... At about
this point the expressmen set the trunk down, put their hands on their
hips, cocked their hats at a new angl