"What about your mother?" Helen asked for her. "I know, I understand. You shall see your mother often, Laurel."
"You mean"—she still had a manner as if gasping for air—as if groping for light, for comprehension. "You mean mother would still live in Boston?"
"That would seem wisest, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Laurel nodded. "Yes, that would seem wisest." For a long quarter-minute she was silent, staring straight in front of her, then unlocking her fingers from Helen's, withdrawing her arm linked through her father's, "No," she said quietly, "it wouldn't do."
"You may visit your mother in Boston, Laurel."
Again for a moment Laurel was silent. "No, it wouldn't do," she repeated. The little girl in her had disappeared. The spontaneity, the soft tender impulsiveness had faded, gone. "I'd like to be a member of your family, father," she said, turning toward Stephen, "of yours, too, Mrs. Morrison," turning toward Helen. "Thank you ever and ever so much, but I'm sorry, I couldn't."
"But, Lollie, my dear child—"
"But, Laurel, listen—"
For twenty minutes, for half an hour, both Stephen and Helen labored with Laurel; but to no purpose, to no avail. "I'm sorry. I couldn't," was her unvaried reply.
Finally Stephen exclaimed, "But, Laurel, my dear child, this isn't a matter we are consulting you on. It is a matter that has already been arranged. We are simply telling you about it."
