"Mr. Buck's waiting for you," a stenographer told her.

Mrs. McChesney opened the door of the office marked "Private."

Two men rose. One she recognized as the firm's lawyer. The other, who came swiftly toward her, was T. A. Buck--no longer junior. There was a new look about him--a look of responsibility, of efficiency, of clear- headed knowledge.

The two clasped hands--a firm, sincere, understanding grip.

Buck spoke first. "It's good to see you. We were talking of you as you came in. You know Mr. Beggs, of course. He has some things to tell you--and so have I. His will be business things, mine will be personal. I got there before father pa.s.sed away--thank G.o.d! But he couldn't speak. He'd antic.i.p.ated that with his clear-headedness, and he'd written what he wanted to say. A great deal of it was about you.

I want you to read that letter later."

"I shall consider it a privilege," said Emma McChesney.

Mr. Beggs waved her toward a chair. She took it in silence. She heard him in silence, his sonorous voice beating upon her brain.

"There are a great many papers and much business detail, but that will be attended to later," began Beggs ponderously. "You are to be congratulated on the position of esteem and trust which you held in the mind of your late employer. By the terms of his will--I'll put it briefly, for the moment--you are offered the secretaryship of the firm of T. A. Buck, Incorporated. Also you are bequeathed thirty shares in the firm. Of course, the company will have to be reorganized. The late Mr. Buck had great trust in your capabilities."

Emma McChesney rose to her feet, her breath coming quickly. She turned to T. A. Buck. "I want you to know--I want you to know--that just before your telegram came I was half tempted to leave the firm. To--"

"Can't blame you," smiled T. A. Buck. "You've had a rotten six months of it, beginning with that illness and ending with those infernal trunks. The road's no place for a woman."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Christmas isn't a season...it's a feeling, and, thank G.o.d, I've got it!'"]

"Nonsense!" flashed Emma McChesney. "I've loved it. I've gloried in it. And I've earned my living by it. Giving it up--don't now think me ungrateful--won't be so easy, I can tell you."

T. A. Buck nodded understandingly. "I know. Father knew too. And I don't want you to let his going from us make any difference in this holiday season. I want you to enjoy it and be happy."

A shade crossed Emma McChesney's face. It was there when the door opened and a boy entered with a telegram. He handed it to Mrs.

McChesney. It held ten crisp words:

_Changed my darn fool mind. Me for home and mother._

Emma McChesney looked up, her face radiant.

"Christmas isn't a season, Mr. Buck. It's a feeling; and, thank G.o.d, I've got it!"

IX

KNEE-DEEP IN KNICKERS

When the column of figures under the heading known as "Profits," and the column of figures under the heading known as "Loss" are so unevenly balanced that the wrong side of the ledger sags, then to the listening stockholders there comes the painful thought that at the next regular meeting it is perilously possible that the reading may come under the heads of a.s.sets and Liabilities.

There had been a meeting in the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York. The quarterly report had had a startlingly lop-sided sound. After it was over Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the company, followed T. A. Buck, its president, into the big, bright show-room. T. A. Buck's hands were thrust deep into his pockets. His teeth worried a cigar, savagely. Care, that clawing, mouthing hag, perched on his brow, tore at his heart.

He turned to face Emma McChesney.

"Well," he said, bitterly, "it hasn't taken us long, has it? Father's been dead a little over a year. In that time we've just about run this great concern, the pride of his life, into the ground."

Mrs. Emma McChesney, calm, cool, unruffled, scrutinized the hara.s.sed man before her for a long minute.

"What rotten football material you would have made, wouldn't you?" she observed.

"Oh, I don't know," answered T. A. Buck, through his teeth. "I can stand as stiff a scrimmage as the next one. But this isn't a game. You take things too lightly. You're a woman. I don't think you know what this means."

Emma McChesney's lips opened as do those of one whose tongue's end holds a quick and stinging retort. Then they closed again. She walked over to the big window that faced the street. When she had stood there a moment, silent, she swung around and came back to where T. A. Buck stood, still wrapped in gloom.

"Maybe I don't take myself seriously. I'd have been dead ten years ago if I had. But I do take my job seriously. Don't forget that for a minute. You talk the way a man always talks when his pride is hurt."

"Pride! It isn't that."

"Oh, yes, it is. I didn't sell T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats on the road for almost ten years without learning a little something about men and business. When your father died, and I learned that he had shown his appreciation of my work and loyalty by making me secretary of this great company, I didn't think of it as a legacy--a stroke of good fortune."

"No?"

"No. To me it was a sacred trust--something to be guarded, nursed, cherished. And now you say we've run this concern into the ground. Do you honestly think that?"

T. A. shrugged impotent shoulders. "Figures don't lie." He plunged into another fathom of gloom. "Another year like this and we're done for."

Emma McChesney came over and put one firm hand on T. A. Buck's drooping shoulder. It was a strange little act for a woman--the sort of thing a man does when he would hearten another man.

"Wake up!" she said, lightly. "Wake up, and listen to the birdies sing. There isn't going to be another year like this. Not if the planning, and scheming, and brain-racking that I've been doing for the last two or three months mean anything."

T. A. Buck seated himself as one who is weary, body and mind.

"Got another new one?"

Emma McChesney regarded him a moment thoughtfully. Then she stepped to the tall show-case, pushed back the sliding gla.s.s door, and pointed to the rows of brilliant-hued petticoats that hung close-packed within.

"Look at 'em!" she commanded, disgust in her voice. "Look at 'em!"

T. A. Buck raised heavy, lack-l.u.s.ter eyes and looked. What he saw did not seem to interest him. Emma McChesney drew from the rack a skirt of king's blue satin messaline and held it at arm's length.

"And they call that thing a petticoat! Why, fifteen years ago the material in this skirt wouldn't have made even a fair-sized sleeve."

T. A. Buck regarded the petticoat moodily. "I don't see how they get around in the darned things. I honestly don't see how they wear 'em."

"That's just it. They don't wear 'em. There you have the root of the whole trouble."

"Oh, nonsense!" disputed T. A. "They certainly wear something--some sort of an--"

"I tell you they don't. Here. Listen. Three years ago our taffeta skirts ran from thirty-six to thirty-eight yards to the dozen. We paid from ninety cents to one dollar five a yard. Now our skirts run from twenty-five to twenty-eight yards to the dozen. The silk costs us from fifty to sixty cents a yard. Silk skirts used to be a luxury. Now they're not even a necessity."

"Well, what's the answer? I've been pondering some petticoat problems myself. I know we've got to sell three skirts to-day to make the profit that we used to make on one three years ago."

Emma McChesney had the brave-heartedness to laugh. "This skirt business reminds me of a game we used to play when I was a kid. We called it Going to Jerusalem, I think. Anyway, I know each child sat in a chair except the one who was It. At a signal everybody had to get up and change chairs. There was a wild scramble, in which the one who was It took part. When the burly-burly was over some child was always chairless, of course. He had to be It. That's the skirt business to- day. There aren't enough chairs to go round, and in the scramble somebody's got to be left out. And let me tell you, here and now, that the firm of T. A. Buck, Featherloom Petticoats, is not going to be It."