She carried a sheaf of white orchids on her left arm. Through the chiffon ribbon that tied the flowers Stella caught a glimpse of something that looked like diamonds sparkling on Laurel’s wrist! A moment later, as Laurel turned a little, she caught a glimpse of what was clasped about her throat. Pearls! A string of pearls! Oh, Lollie! Oh, dear, dear Lollie! She had come into her own! She was being crowned in her rightful kingdom at last!

Stella left the window for a moment and stole to the front corner of the house. Yes. There was an awning running from the front door to the street; there was a man in livery at the curbing, shouting numbers; there was a long row of automobiles on both sides of the street, reaching far away in both directions. All for Lollie!

Stella glanced up. Every window was faintly aglow. Through one of them that must have been open she could hear music, dance music—piano, violins, saxophone, and drum. All for Lollie! She went back again to her window in the alley.

Everything was as it ought to be. Even Lollie’s mother was as she ought to be—also wearing a gown made by an artist, also wearing pearls, also queenly. My! Mrs. Morrison was made for the part. As the guests approached her, Stella observed that there was that look of high approval and homage in their eyes that should be in the eyes of everybody who shook hands with Laurel’s mother. Stella observed, too, that when the guests shook hands with Laurel—with the little queen herself—there was more than high approval in their eyes. There was sudden and spontaneous pleasure, and afterward murmured words of praise.

For more than an hour Stella stood in the shadow of an electric pole, and feasted and feasted. A policeman finally discovered her and told her to move along.

“All right,” she replied cheerfully, “I will. I’m ready now. I’ve seen enough.” For the instant before she had seen straight into Laurel’s heart for a fleeting ten seconds!

Laurel didn’t know it. Laurel had no idea that her mother’s eyes were in the depth of the mirror she had gazed into, at her own reflection.

It had happened like this. Stella had seen it all. She had observed the first faint flush of color creep down the back of Laurel’s neck as a young man had rushed up to her, and eagerly taken her hand in his, in greeting. Apparently the young man had asked Laurel to dance with him. As yet she hadn’t left her post in the bay-window. She hesitated, glanced around the room—the guests were beginning to thin out—then accepted the invitation.