“Holt, ma’am,—Alice and Benjamin Franklin Holt,” the boy answered in his clear, musical voice.
Ruth Warren, seated somewhat back from the fireside and closely observing the picture-like group upon the rug, could not help thinking that it looked as if Alice were kneeling before Mrs. Danforth for forgiveness and Ben were standing by her side as her champion.
“How long have you lived here in Berkeley?” Mrs. Danforth’s eyes were fixed intently upon Ben. She could not bear to look at Alice because of the child’s resemblance to a long-ago little Alice.
“Since the first of last July, ma’am,” Ben replied, manfully meeting the almost stern look in the blue eyes bent upon him.
“And where did you live before you came here?” asked Mrs. Danforth sharply.
“Grandmother is almost rude to ask so many questions,” thought Elsa in her shadowy corner. Betty was listening with round, wide-open brown eyes. Ruth Warren watched Mrs. Danforth’s face now.
“We lived out in New York State. Father was teaching in a college there,” Ben explained pleasantly: “his health wasn’t very good, though, so he brought us here and stayed a little while, and then he had to go to Colorado, for the doctor said so. We raise lettuce and things to sell, so that father can stay away till he gets better.”
“What does your mother do?” Mrs. Danforth asked in a strangely trembling voice.
“Mother? My mother? Oh, she helps with the garden when she is well enough, and she makes some of my clothes and Alice’s dresses and keeps ’count of all the eggs I sell and—” he stopped short.
Mrs. Danforth had risen suddenly. Looking toward Elsa, she said: “I want you to come home with me now, Elsa. It is five o’clock and the seamstress has some new frocks to try on to you before she goes.”