Page:Stella Dallas, a novel (IA stelladallasnove00prou).pdf/268

258 steadfastly turned away. Her worshipful regard for Mrs. Morrison had not changed in quality in the last four years. The only difference was that she was able to adapt herself a little sooner now than formerly to the dazzling presence of her goddess. Give Laurel an hour and she would find her tongue. Give her several hours and the same emotion which choked, confined—later unloosened, unlocked, threw the gates wide.

"Your father is going to be with us for dinner to-night," briefly Helen announced before the car had left them at the door.

"Oh, I wondered when I'd see father."

Helen and Stephen had decided to tell Laurel together. They waited until after dinner. Con and Dane were away at school, and little Rick, who had been cautioned not to mention the great news, had finally been torn away from Laurel's side (little Rick was devoted to Laurel) and had gone upstairs. Helen and Stephen were alone with Laurel in Helen's lovely ivory-tinted room, seated, all three, before the fire, on the long Sheraton sofa, with Laurel in the middle.

Helen slipped an arm through Laurel's and, smiling across at Stephen, said, "Shall I tell Laurel a story now?"

The story that Helen told was the story of her own life. She told it exquisitely. "And then—and then—and then—" step by step, from the first time when she knew that she loved Stephen when only a little older than Laurel, down through all the years, when their paths diverged, met, diverged again. It was a simple, straightforward statement