So violent was her grief that she did not hear the door open softly, nor see the gentle, sweet-faced woman who came swiftly toward her and knelt beside her.
"Why, Miss Ashe! Blue Bonnet, dear—what is all this about? What is the matter? Can I help you?"
The girl raised her face and struggled with her tears.
"I just wanted my mother—for a minute," she said slowly. "Sometimes I need her so—want her—nobody knows how much! I suppose girls never do get used to being without a mother, do they, Mrs. White—no matter how kind and dear one's friends and relatives may be?"
"Couldn't you tell me what the trouble is? Perhaps I could help you?"
Blue Bonnet shook her head.
Mrs. White lifted the girl's wet face and held it between her cool, firm hands.
"Did you know," she said after a moment, "that I was a mother once—for ever so short a while—a little daughter, dear. She would have been almost your age if she had been spared to me. I, too, know how terrible death is—how it robs us—"
"Oh, were you—were you?" Blue Bonnet cried, her own sorrow for the moment forgotten in another's grief. "It must have been awful to give her up—awful! I'm so sorry."
There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Blue Bonnet thrust the miniature into Mrs. White's hands.