It was when she was hanging up the last dress in the closet that she remarked, ever so natural, “I think your mother has beautiful taste, Laurel.”

Laurel looked up quickly. She had replied so far by only necessary yes-thank-yous and no-thank-yous to Mrs. Morrison, and if-you-pleases—that sort of thing, but now she exclaimed, “My mother has the most beautiful taste in the world!”

She didn’t know she was going to say just that, nor that her words were going to rush out in such an unfamiliar fashion. She blushed.

But Mrs. Morrison didn’t seem to think her reply odd. She didn’t even look at her. She said:

“I’ve always wanted a little girl. It’s such fun to dress them. I can see your mother has had great fun getting all your pretty things to match and blend.”

Later when Laurel asked her which dress she should put on for dinner, Mrs. Morrison replied, “Why, I don’t know, I’m sure. Which dress do you think your mother would have you put on?”

She kept on referring to her mother casually like that right along. Perhaps, thought Laurel, she doesn’t know there’s any reason not to. And yet, being a friend of her father’s, how could she help but know that her mother and father didn’t live together like other people. Perhaps she didn’t know why they didn’t live together, just as Laurel herself didn’t know why. Whatever the explanation, Mrs. Morrison’s frank and open recognition of her mother as a human being, and a human being, too, not unlike her lovely self, warmed Laurel, thawed out her mistrust and fear.

Before twenty-four hours had passed Laurel was worshipping Mrs. Morrison with that admiring kind of worship that a young girl, not quite a child, and yet not quite a women, often feels for some stranger who stops and smiles.

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

1

SHE DIDN’T TALK very much at first. She was too engrossed observing unfamiliar surroundings and watching Mrs. Morrison. It was as interesting as reading a new book almost. The ways and habits of a private home were very curious. For instance, you were introduced to the servants. A maid in spick-and-span gray and white did appear finally.

“Hannah,” Mrs. Morrison said to her familiarly, “this is our guest, Miss Laurel. Laurel, Hannah is the one to ask if there’s anything you want. She is a fairy. You’ve only to make a wish out loud before her, and it comes true.”

And the ways and habits of a lady in a private home were curious, too—at least Mrs. Morrison’s were curious. Marveling, Laurel observed the lightning speed with which she dressed. It seemed to Laurel that she was a fairy, too, for she had only to wish herself ready for dinner, or breakfast, or lunch, and she was ready inside of ten minutes.