By the terms of his will--I'll put it
briefly, for the moment--you are offered the secretaryship of the firm
of T. A. Buck, Incorporated. Also you are bequeathed thirty shares in
the firm. Of course, the company will have to be reorganized. The late
Mr. Buck had great trust in your capabilities."
Emma McChesney rose to her feet, her breath coming quickly. She turned
to T. A. Buck. "I want you to know--I want you to know--that just
before your telegram came I was half tempted to leave the firm. To--"
"Can't blame you," smiled T. A. Buck. "You've had a rotten six months
of it, beginning with that illness and ending with those infernal
trunks. The road's no place for a woman."
[Illustration: "'Christmas isn't a season...it's a feeling, and, thank
God, I've got it!'"]
"Nonsense!" flashed Emma McChesney. "I've loved it. I've gloried in
it. And I've earned my living by it. Giving it up--don't now think me
ungrateful--won't be so easy, I can tell you."
T. A. Buck nodded understandingly.
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