the
pillows, had no suggestion of carelessness; it looked fascinating, it
looked lovely.

The mother, holding her daughter's hands, was gazing up curiously,
interestedly, her lips parted, as pleased interest will part any
child's. There was contagious laughter in the eyes, too, the laugh of
expectancy about to be gratified, as with children while the curtain
goes up on a new scene. "You are as pretty as you can be, Malise; the
Blair features used to look so solemn on a baby!"

"Lil' missy--"

Alexina looked around. It was Celeste, tall, brown, regarding her with
covert eyes as of old. Celeste had never loved her, the child had
known that; her love belonged to the mother, her first charge, her
Southern born, all her own. The father's blood in this second child
was alien; Celeste had resented it as she had resented that father and
all his kind. She had been jealous for the mother against the father
and child from the first.

Alexina, drawing a hand from her mother's, gave it to Celeste. The old
woman took it loosely, then let it drop. Things were to be as of old,
then, between them.

The girl turned back to her mother. "But, Molly," the name came
naturally, she had known her mother by no other, "your health, you
know; tell me about that."

What did this dilation in Molly's eyes mean? And she glanced sidewise,
secretly, as if at fear of some dreaded thing, lurking.

"Did I write about that? Oh, well, perhaps I was, then, but not now;
not at all now."

The haste to disclaim was feverish, and the look directed by Celeste
at Alexina was sullen, even while the old woman's strong, resistless
brown hand was pushing her mistress back onto the pillows.

"Got to res' lil' while, p'tite; got to min' Celeste an' lay back an'
res' now."

Then to her daughter, who suddenly felt herself a little compelled
creature again, so was she carried into the past by the old woman's
soft, Creole slurring: "'Tain', lil' missy, 'tain' like Madame Garnier
she aire seeck actual, but jus' she taire, easy like."

Madame Garnier! That meant Molly! The illusions were all gone. The
girl backed from the couch. Twelve years rolled between Molly and
herself, years full of resentment. A slow red came up and over the
daughter's face.

But Molly, back upon the pillows, gave no sign. She flung her plaits
out of the way and slipped her arms under her head. There is a
slenderness that is not meagreness, but delicacy; thus slight, thus
pretty, were