embarrassment, and now he merely reached up a hand to her. "Good-by," he said.
She scarcely noticed him, she was so occupied in directing the neighbor to push the satchel far enough under the seat and give her her lunch box to hold; but when the man had taken his place by her side, she looked back at her husband. "You've no occasion to worry about me, father," she said, reverting to the words which had apparently escaped her. "But take care of yourself. Don't try to git up them steps alone. Now, good-by. I'll be back," she added, "jest as soon as I can git back."
Hiram Taylor met her at the depot. The confusion, the noise, the smoke, the brilliant lines of light winking out of the darkness were to her as the distorted visions in a dream. Her eyes were strained wide open behind her spectacles, and she panted so that she could not answer the few remarks that he addressed to her. But when they left the car her fright subsided, and by the time she met her niece she was quite herself. The ceaseless beat of traffic kept her awake until near morning; nevertheles she rose at the usual time. "I want to make an early start for my son-in-law's," she explained.
"Why, you ain't goin' over there today, are you, Aunt 'Mandy? Hi's got tickets for the museum, and is goin' to git off this afternoon. You wait until tomorrow, and I'll go with you. I can't this morning; the plumber's coming."
But the other shook her head. "Thank you, 'Nerva, but I guess I won't wait. I'll git back to go to the museum, though," she added conciliatingly, "f' I never see one."
Her self-reliant manner deceived the younger woman, and after breakfast she accompanied her to the corner. "Gracious knows, I'm scared to have you go this way," she declared, "though you don't have to transfer or anything."
And the trip was, indeed, a very simple one. She had no difficulty in finding the house. She toiled up the stone steps, quivering with excitement and triumph. "There, I told father I'd git here all right. My, won't Teddie be glad to see me."
John himself opened the door. "Why, mother!" he exclaimed. She was so associated in his mind with a certain village home, he would as soon have thought of one of the shrubs in its dooryard pulling up root and coming to the city as her. "How do you do?" he said. "Well! Did you come alone?"
"Yes. Father was awful worried to have me, but I come, and I—want to see Teddie, John." Her voice trembled into a sob.
He gave her a quick look. "Why, of course."
He came back in a few minutes, followed by his wife. The old woman rose and looked past them eagerly. "I'm so sorry; he goes to kindergarten, and Rose has just packed him off; but he'll be home at noon," he added, pitying her disappointment. "Where's your baggage?"
"It's over to my niece's. I'm staying there."
"Why, I didn't know you had a niece in Chicago. Well, you'll spend the day with us, anyway," he said, with a glance at his wife. Her face was not inviting, but the old lady did not observe it.
"I'd like to, real well, John," she answered, "only Minerva's husband's got tickets for the museum this afternoon, and I promised to be back." She looked smilingly from one to the other. She was on the point of stating her errand, but John, saying he should see her again, put on his hat, and she concluded to wait for a more propitious moment.
For a time Rose stayed with her perfunctorily. The methods and aims peculiar to a kindergarten were outside the pale of the country woman's knowledge.
"To think of her sendin' Teddie to a school," she reflected. "Of course, you ain't expectin' him to learn much," she remarked, finally, "he ain't four years old yet."
"No; it's the discipline. In a kindergarten one child helps to curb another."
The grandmother drew a hard breath. "I ain't never found Teddie needed so much curbin'," she said. "Of course, I ain't sayin' he ain't spunky, but I wouldn't give a cent for a child that wasn't."
They did not get on very well, and when Rose went to attend to some household duties, the visitor began to realize it.
"I declare, I ain't very smart; but I won't say anything more," she resolved. Left to herself in the rather pretentious apartment, she looked about her sharply. "I wonder where the photograph album is; I bet she's took Jennie's picture out and put hers in place of it." Her breathing became labored. It was nearly three years since the laying away of the daughter, but this mother was none the less jealous for her. Indeed, it was as though she had gathered up the threads of that unlived life and woven them with her own more sober ones. Then the thought that John might have locked the album away
