"I was. I have made it a point in a long life never to miss anything that I can see legitimately and respectably. My niece secured an invitation for me. I supposed you knew." "Was that for you? I remember Mrs. Van Dorn's asking permission to bring a friend, but I did not dream that it was anybody I ought to know." "I live in an obscure place," Mrs. Pennybacker explained, "and Maria seems to associate obscurity with disreputableness. It is one of her little peculiarities not to wish it known that she has friends in Missouri. Oh, no, I don't mind." Then, dismissing Mrs. Van Dorn and her peculiarities, "You are very much like your mother, my dear." "Oh, do you think so? I am always glad to be told that--although I know so little about her myself. Do you think I look like her or is it my manner?" Mrs. Pennybacker scanned critically the bright face opposite. "Both. You are taller, I think, but you have her supple grace--I noticed it as you ran down the stairs--and her animation. I am glad of that, for it was one of her greatest charms." Margaret laughed. "I'm afraid I have too much animation,--but I can't help it. You see I feel things rather intensely. My enjoyment is so real that I don't know how to keep from showing it." "I hope you will never learn. A fresh enthusiasm about everything as it comes, and a capacity to enjoy, are among God's best gifts to us. They have but one drawback." "And that is--?" "A corresponding capacity for suffering," said Mrs. Pennybacker, with sudden gravity, as she looked into the young face. "Those two characteristics often go together. But don't be afraid to enjoy with intensity, my dear. It is about that as it is with brilliant color. You often hear girls bewail their pink cheeks, but time almost always tones it down, Margaret. I may call you that, may I not? It almost seems to me that the years have been obliterated and that your mother is beside me." "Oh, I want you to call me that. It is so lovely to see somebody that knew my mother. You always continued friends, didn't you? Nothing ever came between you?" "Nothing--not even death. She seems close to me now, as I sit looking at you." Impulsively Margaret threw her arms around her mother's friend. "Oh, you bring her closer to me than she has ever been in all my life. Tell me about her." They sat long together, the older woman living over for the girl the life of the mother she had never known,--her girlhood, the marriage, the brief wedded life, and its untimely close. "I love to hear you tell about it," Margaret said, a tender light in her eyes. "I have known so little of my mother. Somehow father never talked with me much about her. I think it hurt him to remember." "He was very fond of her," Mrs. Pennybacker said, "and she of him. I never knew a purer love match, nor a happier married life."