“I’ve met them,” responded Elizabeth. “They are in Bitumen at this minute.”
Mary laughed and gave her arm a squeeze. “You’re getting on, Elizabeth. A month ago you couldn’t have made such a remark. You were too literally literal. But as to the best parents; I have them shut up in this room.”
“Not my parents,” decidedly.
“I should say not. My own. Why should I be wanting anyone’s else?”
They entered the room where a little group of the older guests had gathered. Leading Elizabeth to her father and mother, “This is Elizabeth,” Mary said. Both father and mother held out their hands to her. Elizabeth felt that they were not strangers. They knew of her father. She was very glad to note the tone in which all people spoke of him. Nothing was said of his being a brilliant man, although he had been that, but all spoke of him as a good man and doing good work.
“The liquor people are getting it strong up your way, Judge,” said a little old man in the group. “What is going to happen to our friend Bill?”
“It has happened,” responded Mr. Wilson. “We finished him Friday morning—a year and six months in the workhouse.”
Elizabeth looked about her in surprise. Miss Cresswell was near her. “Is Mary Wilson’s father that famous Judge Wilson?” she asked.
“Yes, didn’t you know it?”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “How should I know?” she said, sinking back into her chair as though overcome by the news. “No one told me,” she continued, “and Mary herself never mentioned it.”