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The mother had a more pronounced individuality, as mothers are apt to have, and looked quite fit for the ordinary uses of life. She was of the benignant Roman-nosed Eastern type, daughter of generations of philanthropists and workers in the public eye for the public good; a deep, rich voice, an air of command, plain features, abundant gray hair, imported clothes, wonderful, keen, dark eyes overlapped by a fold of the crumpled eyelid,–a personage, a character, a life, full of complex energies and domineering good sense. With gold eye-glasses astride her high-bridged nose, knees crossed, one large, well-shod foot extended, this mother in Israel sat absorbed like a man in the daily paper, and wroth like a man at its contents. Occasionally she would emit an impatient protest in the deep, maternal tones, and the graceful daughter would turn her head and read over her shoulder in silent assent.

“How trivial, how self-centred we are!” Mrs. Valentin murmured, leaning across to claim a look from Elsie. “I realize it the moment we get outside our own little treadmill. We do nothing but take thought for what we shall eat and drink and wherewithal we shall be clothed. I haven’t thought of the country once this morning. I’ve been wondering if all the good summer things are gone at Hollander’s. It may be very hot in Boston the first few weeks. You will be wilted in your cloth suit.”

“Oh, mammy, mammy! what a mammy!” purred Elsie, her pretty upper lip curling in the smile her mother loved–with a reservation. Elsie had her father’s sense of humor, and had caught his half-caressing way of indulging it at the “intense” little mother’s expense.

“Elsie,” she observed, “you know I don’t mind your way of speaking to me,–as if I were the girl of sixteen and you the woman of forty,–but I hope you won’t use it before the aunts and cousins. I shall be sure to lay myself open, but, dear, be careful. It isn’t very good form to be too amused with one’s mother. Of course there’s as much difference in mothers as in girls,” Mrs. Valentin acknowledged. “A certain sort of temperament interferes with the profit one ought to get out of one’s experience. If you had my temperament I shouldn’t waste this two years’ experiment on you; I should know that nothing could change your–spots. But you will learn–everything. How is your head, dear–what?”

Elsie had said nothing; she had not had the opportunity.

At a flag station where the train was halted (this overland train was a “local” as far as Sacramento) Mrs. Valentin looked out and saw a colored man in livery climb down from the back seat of a mail-cart and hasten across the platform with a huge paper box. It proved to be filled with magnificent roses, of which he was the bearer to the ladies opposite. A glance at a card was followed by gracious acknowledgments, and the footman retired beaming. He watched the train off, hat in hand, bowing to the ladies at their window as only a well-raised colored servant can bow.

“The Coudert place lies over there,” said Mrs. Valentin, pointing to a mass of dark trees toward which the trap was speeding. “They have been staying there,” she whispered, “doing the west coast, I suppose, with invitations to all the swell houses.”

“Is your daughter not well?” the deep voice spoke across the car.

As Elsie could not ride backward, her mother, to give her room, and for the pleasure of watching her, was seated with her own back to the engine, facing most of the ladies in the car.

“She is a little train-sick; she could not eat this morning, and that always gives her a headache.”

Elsie raised her eyelashes in faint dissent.

“She should eat something, surely. Have you tried malted milk? I have some of the lozenges; she can take one without raising her head.”