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inhabitants of the apartment. You can get up when you like, just so you rise in time to set the table for breakfast; you can take afternoon naps undisturbed, have your things where you want them, dress and undress nearly at any time your own room.

Ever since Isabel announced her engagement, grandma had been definitely considering the room. Before that, of course, there had always been the thoughts of it, even remarks to confirm them. "If Isabel ever marries, grandma can have her room," or, "That room will be fine for grandma if Isabel is n't here." Since Isabel's engagement, for two months, now, the room had become almost a possession. Grandma had gone into it when Isabel was not there and looked around. She had sat down in the rocker at the window, imagined herself rightful owner, imagined her few possessions placed in neat order on the dressing-table, her clothes in Isabel's closet. Her own room!

It would be wonderfully pleasant, that room. For twelve years now Grandma Martin had lived with her son David Martin, and his wife Mary and their two children, Isabel and Ralph, and all of those twelve years grandma had slept in the dining-room. Of course, if you had asked her, grandma would have told you that it was not really a bad place to sleep. The dining-room was a nice room, fairly large, with a round golden-oak table and six goldenoak chairs and a glittering golden-oak buffet, holding an array of even more glittering cut-glass-a punch-bowl with twelve cups suspended from its sides by metal prongs, the gift of Mr. and Mrs. Martin's Saturday-night card club when they'd been married twenty-five years, and several odd pieces which Mary Martin had won at cards. On the wall were a pair of "dining-room pictures," appropriately of "fish and game." In the dining-room was a davenport, too, bought specially for grandma, and covered with shining black leatherette, and it opened into a bed at night. Of course it had to be made up when you opened it, and the pillow and covers had to be brought in from the hall closet, and that is not easy when one is seventy-eight. And when one sleeps in the dining

room, one has to wait until all of the other members of the family have gone to bed before one can go, especially in an apartment such as the Martins had, all on one floor. There was a living-room in front, and then a hall on which opened two bedrooms and the bath between them, and at the end of the hall was the dining-room. One had to pass through the dining-room to get to the kitchen, and one knows how it ishow people, especially young people, always want to get into the diningroom or the kitchen just about the last thing at night. When Ralph or Isabel had company in the living-room, Mr. and Mrs. Martin stayed in the diningroom, reading newspapers or playing cards, so grandma could not go to bed as soon as she felt sleepy; she did not have a great deal of privacy. But sleeping in the dining-room was all right; grandma did not complain about it. Did not Ralph sleep in the living-room? Ralph's springs were undoubtedly just as hard and his mattress just as thin as the ones grandma slept on.

David Martin was not poor. He had a small, but paying, electrical supply shop. He had moved twice in those twelve years, but he had never increased the number of rooms in his home. In New York rents are high and getting higher, and one pays for apartments at so much per room. Martin was a thrifty fellow, tall and sallow and calculative. He was a bit of a braggart, and liked to think of the way he lived as "pretty good for poor folks." He felt that he was self-made, because Grandpa Martin had died when David Martin was in his first year of high school, and David had had to quit school and go to work. He was proud of the fact that he had come to New York "without a cent" and had made a success. If Martin could have afforded a bigger apartment, with a room for grandma and maybe a room for Ralph, too, he did not see the need of it. Perhaps he did not realize what it meant to an old lady to sleep in a room where three meals are eaten every day-a room that was as much a family room as the living-room or the hall, with no place for little things that women like. But having a mother thrust upon one for support,

when one's family is quite complete without her, is not always wholly wholly pleasant. Martin's expression about his apartment was, "I don't want to give the landlord all my money." He liked the thought, and used the expression or a similar one frequently. He said frequently, too, that the davenport grandma had was "just as good or better than the bed my wife and I sleep on." He was rather proud of the way he treated his mother. He gave her a little spending money every month, and until she grew so deaf as to prove an annoyance by asking questions, he had taken her to the theater or to the movies two or three times every season. Occasionally, he bought her something new to wear and often asked, "Do you need anything, Ma?" Grandma's wants were few; when one is over seventy and spends most of one's time sewing or reading, there is not a great deal one needs, and grandma did not like to ask for things or be an expense. Ralph and Isabel

were rather selfish, thoughtless, never did much for grandma; but, then, young people Grandma got enough to eat, and she slept quite comfortably on the davenport except on restless nights. She would have liked to help with the cooking, but daughters-in-law have ways of their own, and grandma was not one to cause trouble by trying to interfere. She always set the table and washed most of the dishes and dusted, did what she could.

Until Grandma Martin was sixtysix, when she had come to live with her son David, after her children grew up and married, grandma had lived with her daughter Jessie and Jessie's husband and their daughter Ruth. Grandma had assisted at the birth of Jessie's three children and at the funerals of two of them. Grandma loved Jessie; but, then, she loved David, too. But Jessie was grandma's daughter; that was a little different. Ruth was grandma's favorite grandchild. She had helped rear Ruth, bathed her and

dressed her and petted her. Ruth married when she was nineteen. Grandma was glad Ruth married such a fine man, a young fellow and not very rich, though with a steady position, and exceedingly fond of Ruth. Ruth and her husband moved to Chicago when the firm transferred him there. Then, the next year, Jessie's husband died, and that left Jessie and grandma all alone.

David Martin

David

Jessie went to Chicago to live with Ruth, went to live with her daughter as grandma had done, quite the right way to do, naturally. But of course Ruth could not have grandma, even if she had wanted to have her. One cannot expect a young man on a small salary to support his wife and his mother and a grandmother besides. Grandma knew that. She was glad Ruth was happy and had a nice little home and that Jessie was happy with her. There was no one else,— grandma's second son had been dead for twenty years,

so grandma had gone to live with David.

Martin was a good mangood, but rather close and settled and solemn. Mary, David's wife, was a good woman. Grandma appreciated her virtues, but Mary just "was n't our folks." She was from New England, with a long upper lip and a thin mouth and a way of saying things shortly or not talking at all. Still, she made Martin happy. Grandma was glad of that, and Martin and his family were happy in a quiet and, to grandma, almost a sour way. Grandma liked Ruth, with her little bubbles and giggles, and Jessie, with her sensible housewifeliness and her pleasant, understandable love of gossip and discussion. There was something austere about David's family. But grandma had not had much choice. There was only David to go to, or an old folks' home, and somehow an old folks' home shows that you are unwanted, that your children are failures or ungrateful, unable to have you; it was better at David's.

So twelve years ago grandma had

come to David Martin's and fitted into his five-room apartment and his selfish and self-congratulatory, rather heavy family as best she could. David Martin and his wife occupied one bedroom, and there was no question of grandma having that room. The other bedroom belonged inalienably to Isabel, the "young lady daughter" at sixteen, twelve years ago. Ralph already occupied the couch in the living-room; so they had bought the davenport for grandma.

Now Isabel was married, and grandma was to have Isabel's room. The family was agreed on that. Grandma had waited for the room long enough and patiently enough, certainly. At one time, even, she had feared, as David and Mary had feared, that Isabel would not marry at all. Isabel was not an attractive young woman, certainly; she took after her mother's family. She was pale and thin to gauntness, with rather uneven and straight light hair, a nose too large, and high cheek-bones. She was quiet, and had a sharp, rather coarse voice when she spoke; not the type young men like. And yet grandma had known that if Isabel did not marry, the dining-room davenport would remain permanently hers.

She

Grandma had been the active matchmaker for Isabel. She had tried for a long time to find among the sons of her acquaintance a marriageable young man who might consider Isabel a suitable mate, but she had not succeeded. Grandma recognized Isabel's limitations; but, too, she had seen far less likely girls attain matrimony. Then one day when grandma was sewing for charity at the Ladies' Aid she met Walter Reynolds. He was a son of a member of the society.

Isabel was twenty-seven, then, and without suitors. It was a rainy afternoon, and the streets were slippery. When Mrs. Reynolds suggested that her son, who had called for her, escort grandma home instead, grandma accepted eagerly. When they reached the apartment, grandma urged Walter to stay to dinner, her family would be glad to have him. Walter was a round-faced, good-natured-looking fellow of thirty-two or so, with small eyes, a wide, rather empty smile, and a

weak chin. Grandma found out on the walk home that he had a small, but dependable, mercantile position. It was not a splendid opportunity, but quite as good as Isabel might expect; better, perhaps, than Isabel expected. Isabel had shown no great longings for matrimony. Lacking personality, she lacked the need of attraction as well.

Grandma Martin did what she could to invest Isabel with charm. All the way home she talked about her, preparing Walter for a favorable impression. She flattered Walter in her oldfashioned, gentle way. On arriving home, grandma went into the kitchen and told Mary, her daughter-in-law, who was preparing the meal, about the guest she had brought home, what a nice woman Walter's mother was, and Walter seemed a fine fellow, too. Something might come of it. Mary had hoped that Isabel would be popular, even married by now. While pretending great indifference to grandma's hints, she opened some of her own canned peaches, a special treat, and prepared a salad of tinned fish.

Dinner at the Martins was usually of the simplest. The family was the sort that seldom had dinner guests. Grandma and Mary put the dishes on the table, and Martin served. Ralph, rather spoiled and petted and of a snarly and morose disposition, was always served first. Then came Isabel's portion, and then her mother's was ladled out. After that came grandma's plateful, and then David served himself. David was not specially selfish about food, but Mary was economical about the quantities she prepared, and when not quite enough for two helpings remained at the end, grandma's portions suffered perhaps a trifle more than Martin's own.

When there was a dinner guest, the usual custom of serving was varied, and there was usually a little more to eat. Instead of eating almost in silence, broken only by a few complaints from Ralph, a whine from Isabel, a staccato sentence or two from Mary, a few comments on the weather or business-business was always dull-from Martin, the family tried to break out into a general conversation, touching lightly

on topics of the day. The first night that Walter dined with the family, grandma tried with great eagerness to create a spirit of gaiety quite at variance with the usual behavior of the family. It meant a lot to the whole family, to her, this visit. Ralph was in a good humor; his foot-ball team had won a game that afternoon. David, openly eager that Isabel marry, and seeing in this stray caller, as he saw in every masculine who approached him, a chance for Isabel, became talkative. Grandma praised the canned peaches and told how Isabel, "the best little cook you ever saw," had put them up during the preceding summer. Grandma had peeled the peaches, and Isabel had assisted rather vaguely in the canning.

From the first Walter seemed fairly interested. After dinner Ralph put some records on the victrola, and Isabel, usually silent, expanded enough to add stray remarks to the conversation.

The next week grandma called on Walter's mother; it was quite all right, of course, as she lived only a few blocks away. Grandma found out that Walter had two brothers and that his mother did not object to his marrying. Walter came home while grandma was there, grandma had strayed from her usual custom of hurrying home early, and escorted grandma home again and stayed to dinner. Grandma and David flattered Walter, Ralph listened respect fully to his opinions, and Isabel's silence made her seem just pleasantly shy. A week later grandma telephoned over to Mrs. Reynolds for an embroidery pattern that she thought Mrs. Reynolds had, and Walter brought it over that evening. Grandma prepared Isabel for the visit as well as she could. Isabel did not like advice from an old woman like grandma, but Isabel was a welcome enough victim to matrimony if it required neither charm nor exertion, most of her friends had married during the preceding years, so she did her best to please Walter, giggling a bit hysterically, but trying hard to be entertaining, now that the quarry seemed possible.

David himself was specially enthusiastic over the affair. On previous occasions he had brought home business

acquaintances. Each call had seemed to him important, an event. Each caller had been to him a distinct matrimonial possibility. None of the callers had ever returned for a second call. Her father had lacked finesse and skill, or perhaps Isabel had too definitely lacked charm. Now, with the fat and slow Walter, grandma found little difficulty. She hinted of suitors whom Isabel had

Walter

"turned down." She told of her own popularity and girlhood, how much like her Isabel was, how girls of Isabel's type develop into such splendid cooks and housekeepers and mothers. Walter, a bit confused and perhaps fascinated by the net spread around him, continued to call. Finally the engagement was announced, and this was followed as quickly as possible by the wedding.

David was grateful to grandma. Having an old maid daughter was displeasing to him, not the right thing; it reflected on his success. Girls ought to get married. He definitely acknowledged that grandma had found a husband, a good husband, too, for his only daughter. That is, he acknowledged it to grandma immediately after the engagement, and promised grandma a new black-silk dress for the wedding, which he kept his word about purchasing. If Mary or Isabel felt grandma's help, they did not mention it. Later the thought of grandma's assistance became a bit hazy even to him, and finally disappeared altogether.

Now Isabel was married, and Isabel and Walter had gone to Atlantic City on

a honeymoon. They were going to spend a whole week in Atlantic City, and then they were coming back to New York and going to a hotel to stay until they found a suitable apartment. Now that Isabel was married, she became suddenly, vaguely unimportant to grandma. Her room was different.

Grandma pretended interest in the conversation that was going on in the

Ralph

living-room. Mr. and Mrs. Martin, Ralph, and a boy named Howard, Ralph's best friend, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, friends of the Martins, and their daughter Eileen were discussing the wedding. They had all just come back from the station, piled rather closely into black-and-white taxi-cabs.

"Did n't Isabel look sweet! I 've never seen her look better in my life. I 'm glad she got married in a blue suit instead of in white."

"Did you notice Mrs. Roberts and the three daughters in church? It 's about time one of those girls-" "Was n't Walter nervous? fellow, Walter, a fine-"

A fine

"Isabel said they 'd write to-night or to-morrow, anyhow. I hope they have good weather in Atlantic City."

"She certainly made a sweet bride. Isabel is "

Grandma listened as long as she could. Then quietly, so as not to attract attention,-but, then, grandma did most things quietly; it made her feel less in the way, she walked out of the

room, down the hall, and into Isabel's

room.

The room was upset, full of discarded things, the shell of Isabel as a girl: the box and tissue-paper for the flowers; the dressing-gown that Isabel had been "wearing out," not good enough for marriage and Walter; Isabel's old slippers; letters that had come that day, a wedding present half in its box.

This room she 'd clear it out to-day, still warm as it was from Isabel,-was hers. Had not David, even Mary, said so? Grandma was a trifle afraid of her daughter-in-law, and yet sorry for her. It was hard on Mary, having an old woman, a mother-in-law, living with her all the time. Grandma knew that.

Grandma crept out of the room. She did not want them to find her there; they might laugh. Of course they did not exactly know how she felt about the room. And there was Ralph. Grandma had always been a little afraid. Ralph had not a room, either, and Ralph liked to have his own way, and now, of course, being the son of the family, he might think-Grandma decided to ask casually about it at dinner, when the guests were gone, and find out definitely. Maybe she could start sleeping there right away, to-night.

The guests left with much laughter and unpleasant, heavy jests about the young couple. Mary went into the kitchen to prepare the meal, just a "pick-up," and told grandma not to come in. "Set the table, Ma. No use you standing around in here, with nothing to do."

Finally, dinner was on the table, and the family seated. Four seemed few. There had been five, and six when Walter came in, as he had done frequently in the last two months. It was nicer this way. Six at table make a lot of dishes to wash; one gets pretty tired. They spoke of the wedding: what the minister had said, agreed he 'd spoken very nicely and not too long; about the trip and the weather staying nice.

Grandma took courage. She had to gulp a bit to make the words come. Then she said:

"I think, if you don't mind, now that Isabel-don't you think that I might have go into-Isabel's room?"

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