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Columbus, Ohio, was a Featherloom town. Emma McChesney had a fondness for it, with its half rustic, half metropolitan air. Sometimes she likened it to a country girl in a velvet gown, and sometimes to a city girl in white muslin and blue sash. Singer & French always had a Featherloom window twice a year.

The hotel lobby wore a strangely deserted look. December is a slack month for actors and traveling men. Mrs. McChesney registered automatically, received her mail, exchanged greetings with the affable clerk.

“Send my trunks up to my sample-room as soon as they get in. Three of ’em–two sample-trunks and my personal trunk. And I want to see a porter about putting up some extra tables. You see, I’m two days late now. I expect two buyers to-morrow morning.

“Send ’em right up, Mrs. McChesney,” the clerk assured her. “Jo’ll attend to those tables. Too bad about old Buck. How’s the skirt business?”

“Skirts? There is no such thing,” corrected Emma McChesney gently.” Sausage-casing business, you mean.”

“Guess you’re right, at that. By the way, how’s that handsome youngster of yours? He’s not traveling with you this trip?”

There came a wonderful glow into Emma McChesney’s tired face.

“Jock’s at college. Coming home for the holidays. We’re going to have a dizzy week in New York. I’m wild to see if those three months of college have done anything to him, bless his heart! Oh, kind sir, forgive a mother’s fond ravings! Where’d that youngster go with my bag?”

Up at last in the stuffy, unfriendly, steam-smelling hotel bedroom Emma McChesney prepared to make herself comfortable. A cocky bell-boy switched on the lights, adjusted a shade, straightened a curtain. Mrs. McChesney reached for her pocket-book.

“Just open that window, will you?”

“Pretty cold,” remonstrated the bell-boy. “Beginning to snow, too.”

“Can’t help it. I’ll shut it in a minute. The last man that had this room left a dead cigar around somewhere. Send up a waiter, please. I’m going to treat myself to dinner in my room.”

The boy gone, she unfastened her collar, loosened a shoe that had pressed a bit too tightly over the instep, took a kimono and toilette articles out of her bag.

“I’ll run through my mail,” she told herself. “Then I’ll get into something loose, see to my trunks, have dinner, and turn in early. Wish Jock were here. We’d have a steak, and some French fried, and a salad, and I’d let the kid make the dressing, even if he does always get in too much vinegar–“

She was glancing through her mail. Two from the firm–one from Mary Cutting–one from the Sure-White Laundry at Dayton (hope they found that corset-cover)–one from–why, from Jock! From Jock! And he’d written only two days before. Well!

Sitting there on the edge of the bed she regarded the dear scrawl lovingly, savoring it, as is the way of a woman. Then she took a hairpin from the knot of bright hair (also as is the way of woman) and slit the envelope with a quick, sure rip. M-m-m–it wasn’t much as to length. Just a scrawled page. Emma McChesney’s eye plunged into it hungrily, a smile of anticipation dimpling her lips, lighting up her face.

“Dearest Blonde,” it began.

(“The nerve of the young imp!”)

He hoped the letter would reach her in time. Knew how this weather mussed up her schedule. He wanted her honest opinion about something– straight, now! One of the frat fellows was giving a Christmas house- party. Awful swells, by the way. He was lucky even to be asked. He’d never remembered a real C
hristmas–in a home, you know, with a tree, and skating, and regular high jinks, and a dinner that left you feeling like a stuffed gooseberry. Old Wells says his grandmother wears lace caps with lavender ribbons. Can you beat it! Of course he felt like a hog, even thinking of wanting to stay away from her at Christmas. Still, Christmas in a New York hotel–! But the fellows had nagged him to write. Said they’d do it if he didn’t. Of course he hated to think of her spending Christmas alone–felt like a bloody villain–

Little by little the smile that had wreathed her lips faded and was gone. The lips still were parted, but by one of those miracles with which the face expresses what is within the heart their expression had changed from pleasure to bitter pain.