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So Emma McChesney climbed the long, weary hill of illness and pain, reached the top, panting and almost spent, rested there, and began the easy descent on the other side that led to recovery and strength. But something was lacking. That sunny optimism that had been Emma McChesney’s most valuable asset was absent. The blue eyes had lost their brave laughter. A despondent droop lingered in the corners of the mouth that had been such a rare mixture of firmness and tenderness. Even the advent of Fat Ed Meyers, her keenest competitor, and representative of the Strauss Sans-silk Company, failed to awaken in her the proper spirit of antagonism. Fat Ed Meyers sent a bunch of violets that devastated the violet beds at the local greenhouse. Emma McChesney regarded them listlessly when the nurse lifted them out of their tissue wrappings. But the name on the card brought a tiny smile to her lips.

“He says he’d like to see you, if you feel able,” said Miss Haney, the nurse, when she came up from dinner.

Emma McChesney thought a minute. “Better tell him it’s catching,” she said.

“He knows it isn’t,” returned Miss Haney. “But if you don’t want him, why–“

“Tell him to come up,” interrupted Emma McChesney, suddenly.

A faint gleam of the old humor lighted up her face when Fat Ed Meyers painfully tip-toed in, brown derby in hand, his red face properly doleful, brown shoes squeaking. His figure loomed mountainous in a light-brown summer suit.

“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” he began, heavily humorous. “Couldn’t you find anything better to do in the middle of the season? Say, on the square, girlie, I’m dead sorry. Hard luck, by gosh! Young T. A. himself went out with a line in your territory, didn’t he? I didn’t think that guy had it in him, darned if I did.”

“It was sweet of you to send all those violets, Mr. Meyers. I hope you’re not disappointed that they couldn’t have been worked in the form of a pillow, with ‘At Rest’ done in white curlycues.”

“Mrs. McChesney!” Ed Meyers’ round face expressed righteous reproof, pain, and surprise. “You and I may have had a word, now and then, and I will say that you dealt me a couple of low-down tricks on the road, but that’s all in the game. I never held it up against you. Say, nobody ever admired you or appreciated you more than I did–“

“Look out!” said Emma McChesney. “You’re speaking in the past tense. Please don’t. It makes me nervous.”

Ed Meyers laughed, uncomfortably, and glanced yearningly toward the door. He seemed at a loss to account for something he failed to find in the manner and conversation of Mrs. McChesney.

“Son here with you, I suppose,” he asked, cheerily, sure that he was on safe ground at last.

Emma McChesney closed her eyes. The little room became very still. In a panic Ed Meyers looked helplessly from the white face, with its hollow cheeks and closed eyelids to the nurse who sat at the window. That discreet damsel put her finger swiftly to her lips, and shook her head. Ed Meyers rose, hastily, his face a shade redder than usual.

“Well, I guess I gotta be running along. I’m tickled to death to find you looking so fat and sassy. I got an idea you were just stalling for a rest, that’s all. Say, Mrs. McChesney, there’s a swell little dame in the house named Riordon. She’s on the road, too. I don’t know what her line is, but she’s a friendly kid, with a bunch of talk. A woman always likes to have another woman fussin’ around when she’s sick. I told her about you, and how I’d bet you’d be crazy to get a chance to talk shop and Featherlooms again. I guess you ain’t lost your interest in Featherlooms, eh, what?”

Emma McChesney’s face indicated not the faintest knowledge of Featherloom Petticoats. Ed Meyers stared, aghast. And as he stared there came a little knock at the door–a series of staccato raps, with feminine knuckles back of them. The nurse went to the door, disapproval on her face. At the turning of the knob there bounced into the room a vision in an Alice-blue suit, plumes to match, pearl earrings, elaborate coiffure of reddish-gold and a complexion that showed an unbelievable trust in the credulity of mankind.