ompiled years
after his death. Why, men take heavy chances in their work, they follow
up the slightest opening, but we women throw away opportunities to be
great, every day of our lives! Scientists and theorists are spending
years of their lives pondering over every separate phase of the
development of children, but we, who have the actual material in our
hands, turn it over to nursemaids!"

"Yes, but lots of children disappoint their parents bitterly," said
Mrs. Brown, "and lots of good mothers have bad children!"

"I never knew a good mother to have a bad child--" began Mrs. Burgoyne.

"Well, I have. Thousands," Mrs. Lloyd said promptly.

"Oh, no! Not a BAD child," her hostess said, quickly. "A disappointing
child perhaps, or a strong-willed child, you mean. But no good
mother--and that doesn't mean merely a good woman, or a church-going
woman!--could possibly have a really bad child. 'By their fruits,' you
know. And then of course we haven't a perfect system of nursery
training yet; we expect angels. We judge by little, inessential things,
we're exacting about unimportant trifles. We don't want our sons to
marry little fluffy-headed dolls, although the dolls may make them very
good wives. We don't want them to make a success of real estate, if the
tradition of the house is for the bar or the practice of medicine. And
we lose heart at the first suspicion of bad company, or of drinking;
although the best men in the world had those temptations to fight! But,
anyway, I would rather try at that and fail, than do anything else in
the world. My failures at least might save some other woman's children.
And it's just that much more done for the world than guarding the
valuable life of a Pomeranian, or going to New York for new furs!" They
all laughed, for Mrs. Willard White's latest announcement of her plans
had awakened some comment among them.

"Mother, am I interrupting you?" said a patient voice at this point.
Ellen Burgoyne, rosy, dishevelled, panting, stood some ten feet away,
waiting patiently a chance to enter the conversation.

"No, my darling." Her mother held out a welcoming hand. "Oh, I see,"
she added, glancing at her watch. "It's half-past four. Yes, you can go
up for the gingerbread now. You mustn't carry the milk, you know,
Ellen."

"Mother," said Ellen, flashing into radiance at the slightest
encouragement, "have you told them about our Flower Festibul plans?"

"Oh, not yet!" Mrs. Burgoyne heaved a g