Page:Stella Dallas, a novel (IA stelladallasnove00prou).pdf/62

52 that little blue pitcher you said was Delft, that you used one morning at breakfast. And her skin is like the cream in it."

"She must be lovely."

"Oh, she is, she is," flashed Laurel.

"Haven't you her picture?"

"No. Not here." After a pause Laurel added gravely, "I never bring her picture to New York when I come to see my father."

It was the first reference she had made to the relation that existed between her mother and father. But Mrs. Morrison made as casual a reply to it, as if it had been a frequent topic of conversation between them.

"Of course you don't. I didn't think for a minute. Naturally it's kinder not to."

Oh, how easy it was to talk to Mrs. Morrison! Questions Laurel had long wanted to know the answers to crowded to her lips. "Why are my mother and father different from other mothers and fathers? Why don't they live together? Why aren't people nice to my mother? And why are they nice to my father?" But she didn't allow one of them to escape. Not yet. Nor did Mrs. Morrison allow a question to escape either. They simply walked on in silence till they came to a turn in the garden path where some late pansies were blooming.

"Let's pick some," said Mrs. Morrison.

"Let's," said Laurel, and they leaned down together over the low-growing flowers.

Laurel's heart was beating fast. She could feel it. Between herself and this lovely lady the gossamer-like bond of sympathy, as delicate at first as a thread