nd
when the spring comes, we are to take old Tid and our blessed Junior and
our family effects to an adorable cottage with a garden on all four
sides of it and set well back from the road. You see, we feel that we
can afford it, for we have the exclusive business of supplying the needs
of the Davenant estate, and we are thus financially on our feet.

A REBELLIOUS GRANDMOTHER

Mrs. Cissy Beale and her daughter Cecily sat together in the latter's
bedroom--a bewitching apartment, in which pale-gray paper and pale-gray
draperies formed an effective background for the rosewood furniture and
the French mirrors and tapestried screens.

Between the two women was a bassinet and a baby.

"You act," said Cecily, "as if you were sorry about--the baby."

Her mother, who lay stretched at ease on a pillowed couch, shook her
head.

"I'm not sorry about the baby--she's a darling--but you needn't think
I'm going to be called 'grandmother,' Cecily. A grandmother is a person
who settles down. I don't expect to settle down. My life has been hard.
I struggled and strove through all those awful years after your
father--left me. I educated you and Bob. And now you've both married
well, and I've a bit of money ahead from my little book. For the first
time in my life I can have leisure and pretty clothes; for the first
time in my life I feel young; and then, absolutely without warning, you
come back from Europe with your beautiful Surprise, and expect me to
live up to it--"

"Oh, no!" Cecily protested.

"Yes, you do," insisted little Mrs. Beale. She sat up and gazed at her
daughter accusingly. With the lace of her boudoir cap framing her small,
fair face, she looked really young--as young almost as the demure
Cecily, who, in less coquettish garb, was taking her new motherhood very
seriously.

"Yes, you do," Mrs. Beale repeated. "I know just what you expect of me.
You expect me to put on black velvet and old lace and diamonds. I shan't
dare to show you my new afternoon frock--it's _red_, Cecily, geranium
_red_; I shan't dare to wear even the tiniest slit in my skirts; I
shan't dare to wear a Bulgarian sash or a Russian blouse, or a low
neck--without expecting to hear some one say, disapprovingly, 'And
she's a _grandmother_!'" She paused, and Cecily broke in tumultuously:

"I should think you'd be proud of--the baby."

"No, I'm not proud." Mrs. Beale thrust her toes into a pair of
silver-embroidered Turkish slippers and stood