Then that was her father,
that boy with the beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back from
his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don't-care look. And here was
where he had lived. Here amid all this luxury.
Like a flash came the quick contrast of the home in which he had died, and
a great wave of reverence for her father rolled over her. From such a home
and such surroundings it would not have been strange if he had grown weary
of the rough life out West, and deserted his wife, who was beneath him in
station. But he had not. He had stayed by her all the years. True, he had
not been of much use to her, and much of the time had been but a burden
and anxiety; but he had stayed and loved her--when he was sober. She
forgave him his many trying ways, his faultfindings with her mother's many
little blunders--no wonder, when he came from this place.
The butler tapped on a door at the head of the stairs, and a maid swung it
open.
"Why, you're not the girl Mrs. Sands sent the other day," said a querulous
voice from a mass of lace-ruffled pillows on the great bed.
"I am Elizabeth," said the girl, as if that were full explanation.
"Elizabeth? Elizabeth who? I don't see why she sent another girl. Are you
sure you will understand the directions? They're very particular, for I
want my frock ready for to-night without fail." The woman sat up, leaning
on one elbow. Her lace nightgown and pale-blue silk dressing-sack fell
away from a round white arm that did not look as if it belonged to a very
old lady.
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