“Yes, Elizabeth—sitting in that very chair.”
Blue Bonnet passed a hand gently over the worn arm of the little old-fashioned sewing-chair. The talk between grandmother and granddaughter, during sewing hour, was generally of Blue Bonnet’s mother. Gradually the girl felt herself drawing nearer the mother she remembered rather dimly, coming to know her through the life she had led as a girl in this quiet old house.
“Grandmother,” the girl looked up suddenly, “am I really like Mamma? Benita says so—but am I really?”
“Very, Elizabeth.”
“I am glad—I should like to be like Mamma—‘the little Señora,’ they call her at home yet. Grandmother, I wish you could see the ranch!”
“I have seen it, many a time—through your mother’s eyes.”
“You mean, in her letters? Could she make you do that?”
“You shall see for yourself some day, dear.”
“When, Grandmother?”
“Some day.”