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Updated: June 14, 2025
A little group of lesser officials stood, comic-opera fashion, in the background. And then Emma McChesney's New York training came to her aid. She ignored the voluble interpreter. She remained coolly unruffled by the fusillade of Portuguese. Quietly she opened her hand bag and plunged her fingers deep, deep therein.
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.
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.
I looked, and far up the trail was a speck. "I reckon it is," I answered, and wondered at his eyesight. "She travels over to see Tom McChesney's Ma once in a while." He looked at me queerly. "I reckon I'll go here and sit down, Davy," said he, "so's not to be in the way." And he walked around the corner of the house.
To a working woman, Sunday is for the purpose of repairing the ravages of the other six days. By the time you've washed your brushes, mended your skirt-braid, darned your stockings and gloves, looked for gray hairs and crows'-feet, and skimmed the magazine section, it's Monday." It was small wonder that Emma McChesney's leisure had been limited.
So Emma McChesney climbed the long, weary hill of illness and pain, reached the top, panting and almost spent, rested there, and began the easy descent on the other side that led to recovery and strength. But something was lacking. That sunny optimism that had been Emma McChesney's most valuable asset was absent. The blue eyes had lost their brave laughter.
Automatically she started toward the clerk's desk. Then she remembered, and stopped. "I'll wait here," she said. "Get the key for five-eighteen, will you please? And tell the clerk that I'll want the room adjoining beginning to-night, instead of to-morrow, as I first intended. Tell him you're Mrs. McChesney's son." He turned away.
Emma McChesney's face indicated not the faintest knowledge of Featherloom Petticoats. Ed Meyers stared, aghast. And as he stared there came a little knock at the door a series of staccato raps, with feminine knuckles back of them. The nurse went to the door, disapproval on her face.
It's very evident that we shouldn't have tried to make a national campaign of this thing." Whereupon Mrs. McChesney's smile grew into a laugh. "Forgive me, T.A. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because well, I can't tell you why. It's a woman's reason, and you wouldn't think it a reason at all. For that matter, I suppose it isn't, but Anyway, I've got something to tell you.
For years, it had been Emma McChesney's quiet boast that of those whose business brought them to the offices and showrooms of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, the foremost insisted on dealing only with her. She was proud of her following. She liked their loyalty. Their preference for her was the subtlest compliment that was in their power to pay.
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