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“I am the only woman here at the house,” wrote Manzanita, “and it’s no fun. I’d go about ever so much more, if you were here to go with me. I want to start a club for the women at the mine, but I never belonged to a club, and I don’t know how. Rose Harrison wants you to come on in time for her wedding, and Alice has a new baby. And old Mrs. Larabee says to tell you–“

And so on and on. They didn’t forget her, on the Yerba Buena, as the months went by. Mrs. Phelps grew to look eagerly for the letters. And now came this one, and the greatest news in the world–! And now, it was as it should be, Manzanita wanted her more than ever!

Cornelia came in upon her happy musing, to kiss her mother, send her hat and furs upstairs, ring for tea, and turn on the lights, all in the space of some sixty seconds.

“It was so interesting to-day, mater,” reported Cornelia. “Cousin Emily asked for you, and Edith and the Butlers sent love. Helen is giving a bridge lunch for Mrs. Marye; she’s come up for Frances’ wedding on the tenth. And Anna’s mother is better; the nurse says you can see her on Wednesday. Don’t forget the Shaw lecture Wednesday, though. And there is to be a meeting of this auxiliary of the political study club,–I don’t know what it’s all about, but one feels one must go. I declare,” Cornelia poured a second cup, “next winter I’m going to try to do less. There isn’t a single morning or afternoon that I’m not attending some meeting or going to some affair. Between pure milk and politics and charities and luncheons,–it’s just too much! Belle says that women do all the work of the world, in these days–“

“And yet we don’t GET AT anything,” said Mrs. Phelps, in her brisk, impatient little way. “I attend meetings, I listen to reports, I sit on boards–But what comes of it all! Trained nurses and paid workers do all the actual work–“

“But mother, dear, a great deal will come of it all,” Cornelia was mildly reproachful. “You couldn’t inspect babies and do nursing yourself, dear! Investigating and tabulating and reporting are very difficult things to do!”

“Sometimes I think, Cornelia, that the world was much pleasanter for women when things were more primitive. When they just had households and babies to look out for, when every one was personally NEEDED.”

“Mother, DEAR!” Cornelia protested indulgently. “Then we haven’t progressed at all since MAYFLOWER days?”

“Oh, perhaps we have!” Mrs. Phelps shrugged doubtfully. “But I am sometimes sorry,” she went on, half to herself, “that birth and wealth and position have kept me all my life from REAL things! I can’t help my friends in sickness or trouble, Cornelia, I don’t know what’s coming on my own table for dinner, or what the woman next door looks like! I can only keep on the surface of things, dressing a certain way, eating certain things, writing notes, sending flowers, making calls!”

“All of which our class–the rich and cultivated people of the world–have been struggling to achieve for generations!” Cornelia reminded her. “Do you mean you would like to be a laborer’s mother, mater, with all sorts of annoying economies to practice, and all sorts of inconveniences to contend with?”

“Yes, perhaps I would!” her mother laughed defiantly.

“I can see you’ve had another letter from California,” said Cornelia, pleasantly, after a puzzled moment. “You are still a pioneer in spite of the ten generations, mater. Austin’s wife is NOT a lady, Austin is absolutely different from what he was, the people out there are actually COMMON, and yet, just because they like to have you, and think you are intelligent and instructive, you want to go. Go if you want to, but I will think you are mad if you do! A girl who confused ‘La Boheme’ with ‘The Bohemian Girl,’ and wants an enlarged crayon portrait of Austin in her drawing-room! Really, it’s–well, it’s remarkable to me. I don’t know what you see in it!”