“I been honin’ to see him,” said the child again, and burst suddenly into tears. “Dear, dear,” Miss Ada clucked, “she mustn’t do that! I don’t suppose a few moments, my dear-- She could just put on the little wrapper I made her yesterday--it’s very warm, you know--” Ever since Mrs. Parker’s amazing call Miss Ada had undergone a sea change toward the Parker family. “I will take her down, if you wish.” “I will take her myself.” Glen put on the pale pink flannel kimono and the pink felt slippers which were Glory’s chiefest new treasures, and carried her capably downstairs, greeting the caller coldly. “She can stay only a few moments. The doctor wants her to go to sleep very early.” He advanced, before she could deposit her burden in the big chair, and took Glory in his arms where she snuggled down like a contented puppy. “Seems like hit was a plumb year....” she sighed. “I won’t keep her very long,” he promised. Then he looked delightedly about the grave, quaint room. “Babe Jennings told me, or tried to, but she missed it. And which,” he addressed himself to Gloriana-Virginia, “is the Wishing Carpet?” She pointed with a sallow and boney forefinger. “That thar, suh! Ain’t hit mighty sweet and sightly?” “It is, truly, and it looks very potent to me.” Still carrying her carefully, he stepped over to the rug and stood by design where his mother had lately stood by chance. “I wish,” he said gently, his eyes on Glen Darrow, “I _wish_ that you could manage to be a little nicer to me....” Glen had told herself, after her civil and secretly shaken parting from Mrs. Parker, that nothing was changed; she had been mistaken about the woman; she was not an oppressor; her low and sensible heel was not upon the neck of the toiler; she was indeed (Mrs. Parker had talked with her at length on labor problems and conditions and what her clubs were striving to do for their betterment) even as Dr. Darrow had been, the friend of the submerged. It was possible to be sorry for such a woman who was the mother of such a son, but it was not possible or necessary to change one’s opinion of that son. She had thought it all out clearly in a night which held little of sleep, but now, seeing him here in her beloved room, standing upon the lovely low-toned rug her pale mother had loved, with Glory cuddling thankfully in his arms, it was not quite so clear. “I wish,” he began again, but she interrupted him, speaking quickly and harshly, with something of panic in her voice. “I cannot change my convictions. My father brought me up to believe certain things, to have certain standards----” “And he made a wonderful job of it,” he admitted cordially, “but after all, you know, your father was--yesterday--and we are to-day, and to-morrow!”