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 girl's tastes or thoughts, and she got up petulantly.

"I suppose good mothers are born, not made; it's evidently not my forte. The truth remains, Priscilla is a trial."

The door behind her opened swiftly, and she turned. The girl stood there a moment, motionless, while mother and daughter measured each other. Mrs. Martin's first impression was half pleasure, half dismay—the girl was a beauty, there was no doubt of that.

"Mother!" she said, in a little, half-choked voice. "Mother!"

She put her arms about her mother's neck and clung tightly, so tightly that Mrs. Martin could feel the beating of her heart. She almost resented the passion of the embrace.

"How do you do, Priscilla?" she said, releasing her gently. "My dear, how you've grown! Let's have a look at you." She held her off and took an inventory of gold hair, hazel eyes wet with tears, mouth quiv-