“No, that wouldn’t do,” said Stella, hard and practical, her eyes shining, too, but not with tears—with triumph. “If you were married to Stephen your name would be Dallas then, and Laurel’s name would be Dallas, too. Don’t you see? And everybody would think, who didn’t stop to ask, that Laurel was yours. Gracious, she’s enough like you—dark and slim as a smokestack, and you’ve been her model for years, as far as ways and manners go, and when you begin to do things for her—like giving her, well—a coming-out party, or something—you know she’s seventeen now—why, then the invitation cards, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Dallas, and Miss Dallas,’ would read right, don’t you see? I’ve thought it out. And later, if one of the nice young men in your circle fell in love with Laurel, and married her, why, then again, it would read right in the papers and society columns, where those things are printed. And the same way,” Stella pursued, warming to her subject, “at hotels and places when you have to register—that is, if you should travel with Laurel in Europe or California. Laurel really ought to travel. It is so expensive, I couldn’t manage it myself, what with all the private lessons in riding and skating, and dancing and music, and heaven knows what-not. You’ll find she’s quite up in those things. Oh, really,” earnestly, eagerly she hastened on, unaware of the increasing wonder and surprise in Helen Morrison’s wide-open eyes, “really, if you do want a daughter of your own to take the place of that baby you spoke of that died, I’ll say this, I don’t think you’ll ever be ashamed of Laurel. She takes after her father, and if you’re crazy about her father, why, it popped into my mind that—honestly I can’t see a trace of me in Laurel. Nobody can. She’s so refined, and sort of elegant in her ways. You know that yourself. Oh, you needn’t have a minute’s doubt about what sort of a success Laurel will make if you should bring her out in New York society sometime. She makes a wonderful impression upon strangers. Why, if that girl didn’t have me shackled round one foot everywhere she goes, she’d just soar. And another thing I want to make clear to you, don’t be afraid I’ll be appearing at embarrassing moments. I won’t—ever. I’ve got some common sense, thank heaven. I know what sort of an impression I make, too.”

There was no mistake about the tears in Helen’s eyes now. She rose, went quickly over to Stella, sat down on the arm of her chair, and put her arm about her shoulders.

“I see! I understand!” she exclaimed, softly.

4