The Bell in the Fog and Other Stories by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton
page 17 of 213 (07%)
page 17 of 213 (07%)
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"You are not the child's mother?"
"Yes, sir. Everybody is surprised; you needn't apologize. She doesn't look like any of us, although her brothers and sisters are good enough for anybody to be proud of. But we all think she strayed in by mistake, for she looks like any lady's child, and, of course, we're only middle-class." Orth gasped. It was the first time he had ever heard a native American use the term middle-class with a personal application. For the moment, he forgot the child. His analytical mind raked in the new specimen. He questioned, and learned that the woman's husband had kept a hat store in Rome, New York; that her boys were clerks, her girls in stores, or type-writing. They kept her and little Blanche--who had come after her other children were well grown--in comfort; and they were all very happy together. The boys broke out, occasionally; but, on the whole, were the best in the world, and her girls were worthy of far better than they had. All were robust, except Blanche. "She coming so late, when I was no longer young, makes her delicate," she remarked, with a slight blush, the signal of her chaste Americanism; "but I guess she'll get along all right. She couldn't have better care if she was a queen's child." Orth, who had gratefully consumed the bread and milk, rose. "Is that really all you can tell me?" he asked. "That's all," replied the daughter of the house. "And you couldn't pry open father's mouth." Orth shook hands cordially with all of them, for he could be charming when he chose. He offered to escort the little girl back to her |
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