CHAPTER XII
VIOLA'S MOTHER
At the change of cars the Dalton girls were met by Viola and Mrs. Green. Viola and her mother soon arranged seats for four in the chair car, and Dorothy, with Tavia, joined them in such comfortable quarters as are provided for long distance passengers. Then the little party settled down for a long ride—and all the enjoyment that might be discovered therein. Viola appeared delighted to meet the Dalton girls—she inquired particularly about Dorothy's cousin Nat, but this society "stunt," as Tavia termed it, was due more to the city habit of remembering friends' friends, than a weakness on Viola's part for good looking boys.
But it was Viola's mother who interested both Dorothy and Tavia. She was a small woman, evidently of foreign extraction (Spanish, Dorothy thought) and with such a look of adoration for Viola that, to Dorothy and Tavia, observing the wonderful mother-love, it seemed like something inhuman, divine perhaps, or was it a physical weakness?
They noticed that Mrs. Green used her smelling salts freely, she often pressed her hand to her head, and seemed much like a person too delicate to travel.
"Are you all right, momsey?" Viola would ask continually. "I do wish you had not risked coming."
"But I could not allow you to travel all alone," the mother would answer with a delightful foreign accent. "And you know, my daughter, that father was too busy."
"But, momsey, do not sit up if you are tired," cautioned Viola. "Just lie back and try to be comfortable."
"I am enjoying every word you speak," declared the little woman, inhaling her salts. "You and your charming friends."
Dorothy had never seen so wonderful a mother—to actually hang on her daughter's frivolous nonsense. And the attention was a positive tonic to Tavia's chatter. She said such amusing things and saw such ridiculous comparisons—the kind little children surprise their elders with.