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.”
{Illustration: “'Christmas isn't a season...it's a feeling, and, thank God, 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.