"And so have I—heard a lot about you."
"From Laurel, I mean."
"Yes, I mean from Laurel, too."
"I suppose you know it, but Laurel thinks a lot of you."
Helen smiled. "And I suppose you know it, but Laurel thinks a lot of you."
"Well, I'm her mother. She has to. But she's got what they call a sort of 'crush'—'mash' we called it when I was a girl—on you. She hates to have me call it that. She won't talk about you very much, now. Thinks I might be jealous or something, I guess. Perhaps I was a little at first, though I hardly knew it. Laurel did, though. Trust her. She's the sort of child knows what you feel before you do yourself almost."
"I know. Sensitive, isn't she—oh, so sensitive! I think a great deal of Laurel, Mrs. Dallas. You have a beautiful child, I think."
"She is a nice kiddie," said Stella.
For an instant the two women's eyes met. Was that bright look tears, they both wondered.
3
Stella was the first to look away. She cleared her throat, coughed, made another attempt.
"How's Stephen now?"
"I think he's well."
"I suppose you see him now and then?"
"No. The last few times Laurel has visited me, Miss Simpson has brought her, and taken her away. Stephen and I haven't met for two years."
"Oh, that so?" Stella looked back at Mrs. Mor-
