"It'll mean all the world to me, Betty—oh, Betty, my baby!"
"Why, mother!" exclaimed the girl, aghast and shaken.
But already her mother had drawn herself up, and was laughing through her tears.
"Dear, dear, but only look at the fuss this old mother-bird is making at the first flight of her young one!" she chattered gayly. "Come, no more of this! We'll be late. We'll get ready right away. You say you have the letter from the doctor. Don't forget that."
"No, I won't. I have it all safe," tossed the girl over her shoulder, as she hurried away for her hat and coat. A minute later she came back to find her mother shrouding herself in the black veil. "Oh, mother, dear, please! You aren't going to wear that horrid veil to-day, are you?" she remonstrated.
"Why, yes, dear. Why not?"
"I don't like it a bit. And it's so thick! I can't see a bit of you through it."
"Can't you? Good!" (Vaguely Betty wondered at the almost gleeful tone of the voice.) "Then nobody can see my eyes—and know that I've been crying."
"Ho! they wouldn't, anyway," frowned Betty. "Your eyes aren't red at all, mother."
But the mother only laughed again gleefully—and fastened the veil with still another pin. A minute later mother and daughter left the house together.