'Yes, my dear. It will be all the better for being cut.'
'Why do you call me your dear?'
My mother replied gently, with a slight hesitancy: 'I won't, if you don't like me to.'
'Oh, but I like it! And it sounds nice from you. It will be all the better for being cut! That's what I think. It was nearly down to my waist. Do you like it?'
'It is very pretty.'
'And soft, is it not? Feel it. When I was a little child, it was much lighter--almost like gold. I used to be glad to hear people say, "What beautiful hair that child has got!"'
'It will get darker as you grow older.'
'I don't want it to. I'll sit in the sun as much as ever I can, so that it sha'n't grow darker.'
'Why, my----'
'Dear. Say it, please!'