"I am sure Father was right. He is always right," she said loyally.
"Well, he may have been. I'm not denying that; but it's an old story now, and I wouldn't bring it up again, if I were you. He has enough things to carry without that."
She hesitated a moment before replying. "Yes, I suppose it's better not to speak of it. He has too many worries."
"I knew you'd see it that way; you're a girl of sense. And if Mrs. Green should ever come here, must I tell her that you would like to see her?"
"Does she think of coming here? California is so far away."
"Well, people do come, don't they? And I know she'd like to see you. She was very fond of your mother. I used to know both of 'em in the old days when I was a boy."
"Of course I'd like to see her if she could tell me about my mother. I want to ask questions about her—only it makes Father so unhappy when I bring up the past."
"It would, I reckon. Things like that are better forgotten." Then, dismissing the subject abruptly, he remarked in the old tone of facetious familiarity, "I never saw you looking better. What have you done to yourself? You are always imitating some new person every time I see you."
"I am not!" Her temper flashed out. "I never imitate anybody." Yet, even as she passionately denied the charge, she knew that it was true. For a week, ever since her first visit to the old print shop, she had tried to copy Corinna's voice, the carriage of her head, her smile, her gestures.
"Well, you needn't," he assured her with admiring pleasantry. "As far as looks go—and that's a long way—I haven't seen any one that was better than you!"