“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Danforth. And Betty felt like a naughty child, though she could not have told why.
Betty’s mother was just turning toward her home, when Mrs. Danforth’s coupé stopped, and Betty flew out like a small whirlwind.
Mrs. Danforth lowered the coupé window and leaning forward, said: “Mrs. White, I wish my little Elsa were as rosy and strong as your Elizabeth.” She always spoke Betty’s full name,—Elizabeth.
Mrs. White noticed the unusually gentle expression upon the proud face. She had wanted a good opportunity to speak to Mrs. Danforth about Elsa; so, with the same frankness which Betty had shown, she said: “There is no use in trying to bring children up without love, Mrs. Danforth. You cannot make strong, happy, useful men and women without it.”
Mrs. Danforth did not seem offended; though her eyes gleamed proudly from under her heavy brows, and a slight colour rose on her cheeks. Her voice was rather hoarse as she said to Mrs. White, with a cold smile: “Your daughter Elizabeth is very much like you.” Then she bowed good-bye, and ordered the coachman to drive on.
“You forgot to thank Mrs. Danforth for the drive, Betty,” said Mrs. White, as they walked up the steps together.
“So I did, mother. That is too bad,” Betty answered, penitently, slipping her hand into her mother’s arm. “But Mrs. Danforth kind of stiffens me up and makes me forget things. Aren’t grandmothers ever as nice as mothers? I don’t know, because I haven’t any grandmothers.”
“Yes, Betty, they are often better, or at least children think so. But there are a great many different kinds of mothers and grandmothers.”
“I know I’ve got the best kind of mother!” exclaimed Betty joyfully.
That evening, after Elsa had shaken hands, said good night, and gone up to her white room, Mrs. Danforth, alone in her luxurious library, sat quiet for a long time, thinking deeply about many things, especially about the real purpose which had brought her to live in Berkeley.