“This is Laurel, boys,” she said briefly. Then, still holding Laurel, not giving her even a chance to go through the agony of a series of curtsies, she went on, “These are your new friends, Laurel. Cornelius, over there by the piano, is the oldest. ‘Con’ we call him for short. And Dane comes next. ‘Great Dane’ they call him at school. But I call him little Dane. And the little boy in your father’s lap is Frederick. ‘Rick’ is his nickname. He’s the baby—five years old now. We haven’t any little girl for you, Laurel,” she sighed. How lucky! No girls! Boys weren’t half as cruel.

“And now,” Mrs. Morrison broke off, “I wonder would you pass this cup of tea I’m making to your father? And, Con dear, will you pass the sandwiches? Get down, Rickie, and run and get your rabbit and bring it in to show Laurel. And, Dane, take Michael out. Michael,” she explained to Laurel, “is not fond of Mercedes’s society, Mercedes being the rabbit,” she smiled.

They were all busy in no time—all but Mrs. Morrison and Stephen, each rushing about on some errand or other. There wasn’t a chance for pause or embarrassment. The same rare insight and understanding which made Helen Morrison’s dinner-parties such a success was quite as reliable with children, or with servants, or with the factory girls at the settlement-house in which she was interested. Not only did everybody with whom Helen Morrison worked and played get on beautifully with her, but under her gentle management they got on beautifully with one another, too. And yet she seemed to make no effort at adjusting herself to the various ages, groups, and classes with which she came in contact. That was why she was so successful with Laurel. It was her apparent unawareness that she was saying or doing the diplomatic thing that broke through the barrier of silence and reserve which Laurel hid behind whenever she met strangers.

The women whom Laurel met when visiting her father never by any chance, even indirectly, referred to her mother. It would have been a “break” if they had. Laurel knew that. But Mrs. Morrison made such a break. Mrs. Morrison referred to her mother, and the very first night, too, scarcely an hour after her father had said good-bye.

3

THEY WERE UPSTAIRS together, unpacking. No chambermaid, no lady’s-maid assisted at the task. In fact Laurel had begun to wonder if any servants existed in this household. Mrs. Morrison alone helped her, carefully hanging dress after dress in a closet near by, and exclaiming over each one, how pretty she thought it was. What a lovely color! Like jonquils one, like violets another, like a meadow spotted with tiny daisies, a certain English print.