On many topics, Laurel was as frank and open with her father as any artless child. But she had her reservations. She had great expanses of thought and experience she never let him glimpse at. She never mentioned her mother’s name to him. She made as little reference as possible even to her life with her mother. By the time she was thirteen this silence had become like a wall between Laurel and her father. Stephen was aware of it. It loomed high and blank between them, and shut much of Laurel away from him. But it also shut much of Stella, too.

Once the mention of Stella’s name, even as “Mother” on Laurel’s lips, had hurt Stephen. The years had cured him of the hurt, but still he thought it wiser to let the barrier remain. For one reason—it was kinder to Stella. Laurel’s silence made it easier for him never to criticize Stella and, therefore, appear to influence the child against her mother. There were many things to criticize, and if they were brought to his attention in detail, he would be sure to wish to alter them. This he could not do without interference with Stella. Interference with Stella would open up new issues, and lead to unpleasant complications. And after all Laurel was Stella’s child. Stella had been necessary to Laurel. He could never have been a nurse to a little girl of six. Had he been determined to control Laurel’s bringing-up, then he ought to have been willing to have endured Stella. He had made his decision. He had never regretted it.

He took Laurel down to Mrs. Morrison’s in his automobile. She talked very little as the car sped over the smooth roads, through pretty settlement after pretty settlement. When finally Stephen announced, “The next town’s ours,” Laurel murmured miserably, “You’ll surely be back for me Saturday, won’t you?”

Stephen laughed. “Surely,” he said. “Why, you’d think I was putting you in an institution.” And a little later he sang out cheerfully, “Here we are at the prison-gates!” and turned the car in between two cement posts, partly ivy-covered, and up a short curving drive.

The house was cement, and partly ivy-covered, too, like the posts. It was set low, seemed to cling to the ground, and the close-cropped lawn ran right up to long French windows on either side of the front door.

The French windows were open, and from out of one of them stepped Mrs. Morrison. She waved her hand at Stephen and Laurel, and called out in a high pretty voice, “Hello!” then walked rapidly toward the approaching car to meet it.