Sometimes as Helen gazed at the picture, it seemed that she caught a wistful expression in the eyes, as if, she sentimentalized, her little girl had become tired of waiting, waiting, waiting, so long to grow up. It hurt, even after years it hurt Helen Morrison, to feel the stab of her uselessness to this child who had so trusted her. Oh, if she could only do something to rescue her from that eternal loveliness of babyhood—give her back the gift of life again, even though it might hurt her sometimes, even as life had hurt her mother.

Helen Morrison had worshipped her gentle, flower-like little daughter. She had been more than just a precious baby to her. She had been a symbol, a manifestation, a gift from heaven. For years and years Helen Morrison had longed for something feminine of her own. She had never had anything feminine of her own. No sister, no mother. Her mother had died when she was born. Her father had never remarried. Helen had been brought up by nurses and governesses, under the strict régime of an elderly and masterful housekeeper.

Helen used to plan by the hour what she would do for a daughter if she ever had one of her own. Even before she thought seriously about marriage, she built air-castles about that little dream-girl of hers. She should have all the joys and delights which her own childhood had lacked. She should be surrounded, day and night, by feminine tenderness and comprehension. She should have a friend always waiting for her at home, to play with her, or to work with her, to walk and talk with her, or to love pretty clothes with her, or pity wounded bugs with her, or to hold hands with her when it “thundered and lightened.” Later, when life itself seemed to “thunder and lighten” about her, there would still be somebody holding her hand, reassuring her, making facts lucid and clear, and truth beautiful. Helen had ideas about girls and what made for happiness in their lives. She would have filled the blank pages of her little daughter’s book full of inspired and lovely things.

When that little girl was born, Helen Morrison had been married several years. She had already had two boys—fine sturdy specimens—but soldier material, American business-man stuff. When a little girl, a little feminine creature of her own, was placed in the curve of Helen Morrison’s arm, she could not speak for joy. It seemed as if a bit of heaven itself had slipped through the clouds. Her cup was full and brimming over. That precious relationship that she had lost so long ago, the day she was born when her mother died, had been given back to her again!