Olive Higgins Prouty

“ Laurel is yours, Mrs. Dallas. A child is always her mother's, I think."
"You mean, Laurel would keep right on making her headquarters with me, the same as she does now?"
"Why, of course. I am a mother, Mrs. Dallas. Once I was the mother of a little girl. My little girl would be just Laurel's age now. As long as I live I shall never be guilty of robbing any woman of her only little daughter."
Stella glanced down at her shoe, out upon the terrace, back to her shoe again, cleared her throat, then boldly raised her eyes to Helen's. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Helen led the way across the hall, shoved a cool, linen-covered armchair in front of one of the terrace windows. "I always like it here better on a warm morning, looking out on the shadows rather than on sunshine. And there's usually a breeze."
Opposite the armchair Helen placed one of the Sheratons for herself. She made a little waving motion toward the armchair. "Sit down, please," she said; "take that chair."
Stella complied—at least partially. She took the extreme edge of the chair. It was one of those low deep affairs. She'd have a frightful time getting out of it if she sat back. ”