E-text prepared by Al Haines
by
Author of
The Poor Little Rich Girl, Etc.
A story for all mothers who have daughters
and for all daughters who have mothers
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1917, by
Sully and Kleinteich
All rights reserved
First edition, October, 1917
Second edition, October, 1917
It seems to me that there are, broadly speaking, three kinds ofmothers. First, there is the kind that does not plan for, or want, achild, but, having borne one, invariably takes the high air ofmartyrdom, feeling that she has rendered the supreme service, and that,henceforth, nothing is too good for her. Second, there is the motherwho loves her own children devotedly, and has as many as her health andthe family purse will permit, but who is fairly indifferent to otherwomen's children. Last of all, there is the mother who loves anybody'schildren—everybody's children. Where the first kind of mother finds"young ones" a bother, and the second revels in a contrast of herdarlings with her neighbors' little people (to the disparagement of thelatter), the third never fails to see a baby if there is a baby around,never fails to be touched by little woes or joys; belongs, perhaps, toa child-study club, or helps to support a kindergarten, or gives asfreely as possible to some orphanage. And often such a woman, findingherself childless, and stirred to her action by a voice that isNature's, ordering her to fulfill her woman's destiny, makes choicefrom among those countless little ones who are unclaimed; and if shehappens not to be married, nevertheless, like a mateless bird, she setslovingly about the building of a home nest.
This last kind is the best of all mothers. Not only is the fruit ofher body precious to her, but all child-life is precious. She is thesuper-mother: She is the woman with the universal mother-heart.
You, the "Auntie-Mother" to two lucky little girls, are of this typewhich I so honor. And that is why I dedicate to you this story—withgreat affection, and with profound respect.
Your friend,
ELEANOR GATES.
New York, 1917.
"I tell you, there's something funny about it, Steve,—having the weddingout on that scrap of lawn." It was the florist who was speaking. He wasa little man, with a brown beard that lent him a professional air. Hegave a jerk of the head toward the high bay-window of the Rectorydrawing-room, set down his basket of smilax on the well-cared-forBrussels that, after a disappearing fashion, carpeted the drawing-roomfloor, and proceeded to select and cut off the end of a cigar.
"Something wrong," assented Steve. He found and filled a pipe.
The other now dropped his voice to a whisper. "'Mrs. Milo,' I says tothe old lady, 'give me the Church to decorate and I'll make it look likesomething.' 'My good man,' she come back,—you know the way shetalks—'the wedding will be in the Close.'"
"A stylish name for not much of anything," observed Steve. "The Close!
Why not call it a yard and be done with it?"
"English," explained the florist. "—Well, I pointed out that thisroom would be a good place for the ceremony. I could han