"No, thank you," said Mrs. Bett. Evidently she rather enjoyed the
situation, creating for herself a spot-light much in the manner of
Monona.

"Mother," said Lulu, "let me make you some toast and tea."

Mrs. Bett turned her gentle, bloodless face toward her daughter, and her
eyes warmed.

"After a little, maybe," she said. "I think I'll run over to see Grandma
Gates now," she added, and went toward the door.

"Tell her," cried Dwight, "tell her she's my best girl."

Grandma Gates was a rheumatic cripple who lived next door, and whenever
the Deacons or Mrs. Bett were angry or hurt or wished to escape the
house for some reason, they stalked over to Grandma Gates--in lieu of,
say, slamming a door. These visits radiated an almost daily friendliness
which lifted and tempered the old invalid's lot and life.

Di flashed out at the door again, on some trivial permission.

"A good many of mamma's stitches in that dress to keep clean," Ina
called after.

"Early, darling, early!" her father reminded her. A faint regurgitation
of his was somehow invested with the paternal.

"What's this?" cried Dwight Herbert Deacon abruptly.