You know as well as I that I am asking nothing but a square deal for Elizabeth Ann and I shall certainly tolerate no conduct on your part which smacks of being ignored by you. If I cannot settle amicably a matter which should long ago have been settled without making it the basis for a life-long enmity and possible unpleasantness for all of us, then I shall be obliged in fairness to Mr. Harding’s child to fight for what is her due. And you cannot look me square in the eyes and deny that I am asking aught but justice.
I want to add that you are at perfect liberty to show this letter to whomever you like, knowing that I have nothing to conceal from any member of the Harding family. And I am ready to face the entire group at any time you say. I can offer to do no more.
Very sincerely,
Nan Britton Neilsen”
I must say that this letter conveyed a fighting spirit which my broken heart and body belied, but it was the spirit which has guided me in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles to seek the justice which is due Elizabeth Ann, and to justify my own claim to her as her mother. I wrote Tim Slade on January 30th, telling him of the contents of Mr. Votaw’s letter. Then I waited a few days for possible developments.
150
One evening I went home tired, soul and body. Elizabeth Ann met me as usual at the door. Simultaneously with my ringing the doorbell I could hear her voice, high-pitched in pleasurable excitement, “It’s Nan, muz!” she exclaimed to mother, and came rushing to open the door to greet me. Realizing keenly my dire financial status, daring not to divulge to my mother how frantic I was, knowing she would immediately have insisted upon taking some kind of position which would make it necessary for me to again ask my sister Elizabeth to come East and get the baby, I felt particularly unable to match my daughter’s playful mood. She wanted to recite a piece for me! Would I please sit down and listen?
Of course I would! I forced the gaiety I could not feel. It was all a familiar procedure, this reciting business, and I sank acquiescently into the nearest chair. Elizabeth Ann disappeared into the bedroom, and returned with a grown-up scarf around her shoulders to announce, as always, “Ladies, the princess will speak for you!” This, too, was familiar, for she had so self-styled herself very early, and somehow it seemed to me a most appropriate appellative considering the birth distinction that was hers.
“The princess will speak—which one shall I speak, muz?” she turned to inquire of my mother who was busy preparing dinner at the kitchenette, which occupied one side of the living-room. Mother whispered into her ear and Elizabeth Ann’s face lighted with the joy she could not conceal in being encouraged to surprise me with her newest dramatic acquisition.
The Harding smile was directed at me, the “audience”; the Harding eyes twinkled mischievously; the Harding bow was eloquently appealing; and the voice of the Harding child fell sweetly upon the ears of her mother:
“A bear—however hard he tries,