"It used to be like that," he smiled, and he reached over and put his hand over Laurel's. "I'm glad you like to read, Laurel," he said, "for I like to, too. I've hoped you'd like to read when you grew up."
Laurel looked down at her father's hand, and then quickly out of the window, as if not to frighten it away.
"Isn't it funny how many things there are that you like that I like too?" she said softly. "I was counting them up coming down on the train."
"Are there? Tell me. What?"
"Well—there's books, and woods, and camping, and dogs, and horses, and fall better than spring, and dark meat better than light, and roast beef better than chicken, and salad better than dessert, and—and—"
"Yes, go on," her father encouraged.
"Well, picture galleries, and Madame Butterfly, and that Mrs. Morrison, and—"
"That Mrs. Morrison!" her father interrupted.
"Yes. Don't you remember last year one afternoon at tea?"
"I supposed you'd forgotten all about Mrs. Morrison."
"I haven't," said Laurel.
"You saw her for only about a half an hour."
"I know it. But you know what you said beforehand?"
"What did I say?"
"Why, for me to notice her, and listen to her nice voice, for she was somebody you'd like me to grow up to be like."
