Mother: A Story

Berlin hotel because the spring was so beautiful, and the city so sweet with linden bloom, and esp

ry, entirely satisfied with what she wore as long as it was suitable and fresh, into a living woman, whose cheeks paled and flushed at nothing but her though

wasn't it?-her secretary then,-would like to hear a very interesting young American professor lecture this morning?

ck the hair that fell across his forehead. After that he walked to the hotel with them, through dazzling seas of perfume, and of flowers, under the enchanted shifting green of great trees,-or so Margaret thought. There was a plunge from the hot

lue eyes and the white flash of his teeth He was a gentleman, to begin with; distinguished at thirty-two in his chosen work; big and well-built, without

d several times a day. Margaret would come down the great sun-bathed stairway in the morning to find him patiently waiting in a porch chair. Her heart would give a great leap-half joy, half new strange pain, as she recognized him.

rly waiter who was so much delighted with her German, the busy picturesque traffic in the street just below the wide-open window. She wou

d a handsome Russian leather note-book, and a gold pencil. Sometimes after luncheon they all went on an expedition together, and now and then Margaret and Doctor Tension went off alone on foot, to explore the ci

hen Margaret was an enchanting vision in her long coat, with her cheeks glowing through the blown wet tendrils of her hair. Th

ur father's sister?" John Tension aske

teacup. "Haven't I told you yet that I'm only her secr

ot it into my head, that first da

. Carr-Bolt's invaluable maid the likeness would have been less marked, on this score at least. "I taught sch

age?" He was eyeing her amusingly; the

ways did, a little claim on her loyalty, she added: "We are, or were, rath

t of Margaret's hands,-much, much further indeed than she would have carried it, by continuing, "She tells

he said nothing. Quincyport was in the county that Mother's people had come from; Quincy was a very unusual name, and the original Quincy had been a Charles, which certainly was one of Mother's family names. Margaret and Julie, br

n't still in the

d her throat. "They're in

Not nea

Do you kn

he only mother I ever knew! I knew Weston, too, a little. Lovely homes there, some

Margaret said, vag

of woman who likes to sit down under a portrait of your great-grandfather, in a dim parlor full of mahogany and rose jars, with her black silk skirts spreading about her, and an Old Blue cup in her hand, and talk family,-how cousin this married a man whose people aren't anybody, and cousin that is outraging precedent by naming her child for her husband's side of the house. She's a funny, dear old lady! You know, Miss Paget,

ly ordered existence as that. We are poor people, our house is crowded, our days a severe and endless struggle with the ugly things of life. We have good blood in our veins, but not more than hund

in her pockets. No, the professor would call on her at Bar Harbor, take a yachting trip with the Carr-Boldts perhaps, and then-and then, when they were really good friends, some da

ent carried its freight of joy. Her beauty, always notable, became almost startling; there was a new glow in her cheeks and lips, new fire in the dark lashed eyes that were so charming a co

child who must be hurried home to the only surgeon in whom Mrs. Carr-Boldt placed the least trust. There was hurried packing, telephoning, wiring; it

eams for many a day to come. Arriving, as they were departing, were the St. George Allens, noisy, rich, arrogant New Yorkers, for whom Margaret had a special dislike. The A

ly," said the professor, s

said Maude Allen, cheerfully. "Mamma,

lies. She carried a secret heartache through the worried fortnight of Victoria's illness, and the busy days that followed; for Mrs. Carr-Boldt had one of many nervous break-downs, and took her turn at the hospital when Victoria came home. For the

retary, one of the hundred paid dependents of a rich woman. She w