r mother's hungry heart. "I am not sure I know her," she
would often muse, those days, "I am only sure she doesn't know me!"

Myrtie lived in Chicago; she had married very well indeed; and had a
prosperous husband who was a graduate of Harvard and dallied with
reform; and there were two sweet little children who called Mrs. Hardy
"Granny"; and Myrtie always consulted her mother when they were ill; she
was a devoted daughter. "When my dear mother was alive," said Mrs.
Hardy, smiling rather grimly, "grannies were not very nice old cronies
who smoked pipes in the chimney corner; and 'Grandma' was good enough
for any grandmother; now, 'Grandma' is provincial and _I_ am a granny,
myself. It is a little puzzling."

The children were all out of the house, now. Ralph, the youngest, was at
college; she was well acquainted with him; she used to write him about
the books she read and he wrote her about the boys and football; she
knew a great deal about football. She lived in a stately new colonial
house with quaint little window-panes wherever they would not obstruct
the view, and snowy tiled bath-rooms, such as no colonial ever knew; and
terraces decked with pink and blue hydrangeas; and dazzling window
gardens. Myrtie had been as kind as possible about the house; and
Myrtie's taste was charming; it had been an education in colonial
history as well as architecture to have Myrtie help build the house;
even the architect was deferential to her. Across the street was
Darrie's less costly but no less correctly charming house. Hester had
done Myrtie's architectural bidding, also. Darrie was the best of sons.
She was proud of him; and his father depended more and more on him. She
loved his wife; and his children were her vivid delight. Darrie used to
fetch her flowers and new plants for the window gardens; and tell her
about the children's funny sayings. Darius, her husband, grew kinder and
more generous all the time; he gave her a check-book of her own; she
told her old friends that she had the best husband and children in the
world; and that she was a grateful woman; she duly remembered her
abundant mercies in her prayers; and yet--and yet she began to feel
herself retired. A most respectable position, that of a retired officer;
but, somehow, generals and admirals do not covet it. Nor did Myrtle
Hardy. She had been in the center of her own stage; now she felt herself
most gently, most civilly, pushed into the wings. Her daughter-in-l