“Mamma,” said Marjorie. 

 Mrs. Fielding put her handkerchief to her eyes. She was afraid of the committee and hid weakly behind her tears, knowing that they would not attack her there, but the committee was not considering an attack. It was preparing a graceful retreat and it oozed away before Marjorie made its baseness known. 

 “Doctor,” said Mr. Fielding unsteadily, “do you think you can pull her through?”  

 The doctor rumbled deep in his throat. 

 “Pull her through!” he growled. “Pull her through! Why don't you ask me?” he snapped at Mrs. Fielding. Mrs. Fielding wiped her eyes. 

 “Will she get well?” she asked. 

 The doctor grew scarlet. 

 “You ask me?” he exclaimed at Chiswick, but Chiswick only looked mutely miserable, and the doctor turned and faced them. 

 “Pull her through!” he growled. “Yes, I'll pull her through. She's about as ill as I am, but she's as sick as a dog. Stuffed with candy. I'll prescribe—”  

 He turned, and, walking to the wall, tore down the rules and schedule so carefully prepared by the committee. When he faced Mr. Fielding again he seemed happier. 

 “How's your mother?” he asked. 

 Mr. Fielding gasped. 

 “My mother!” he stammered. “Why—why, she's dead.”  

 “How's your mother, then?” the doctor asked, turning to Mrs. Fielding. 

 “Mother is well, thank you.” she said. 

 “Good!” the doctor cried. “I prescribe one grandmother, one good, old-fashioned grandmother. And see that she isn't any new-fangled affair, either, or I'll turn her out and go out on the street and pick one to suit me.”  

 Marjorie, pale and big-eyed, looked at him wonderingly. 

 “An incubator is all right when a mother won't do,” he said, “and a mother is all right when you can't get a grandmother, but hang your committees and your rules! The only good thing about rules is to find exceptions to them. What 

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