She saw no one that suggested the Ella she had planned, but a tall slim creature, dressed like an actress, in glistening silk, came forward hesitantly. She looked young, and yet she didn’t. Her hair was hidden by a hat whose brim seemed to have been flourished by the impatient, whimsical stroke of a painter’s brush. From this dressmaker’s model came a voice that startled the valise from Momma’s hand, for the voice came out of childhood, and it was the voice of Ella. It sang a new tune, but it was the old voice. It said timidly, tentatively: “Mattie? Is it you?” Momma’s soft old knees caved in, and she sat on the valise as she whimpered: “This is me, but you’re never Ellar!” “Oh, yes, I am, my dear,” said Ella with a good laugh as she hoisted Momma to her feet. “I’m the same old sixpence.” “You look more like your own daughter, if you have one.” “Oh, I have one--three, in fact. But--come along, you old dear.” She nodded to a red cap, who took the valise and followed her as she led Momma through the station. Momma’s dazed eyes supposed they were taking a short cut through a cathedral. The Killip limousine was marvelous, but she expected marvels. She was a trifle disappointed when she reached Ella’s home. She had expected to drive through a royal park to a palace. But she was put down at a house built jam in among a lot of other houses. It was not half the size of Momma’s house and had no yard at all except a small patch at the back. In place of a double row of stiff-necked butlers up a grand staircase, there was one very pleasant young man at the door and an awfully nice hired girl in cap and apron. Very friendly she was too, and helped Momma in the most folksy way up to her room. * * * * * Ella came along, and when the maid was sent for tea she petted Momma and stuffed a pillow in her back and then drew a chair close up and said: “Now, Mattie dear, tell me all about it. What on earth is the trouble, you poor soul?” But Momma was so embarrassed by the numberless disparities between herself and this strange creature who had started life with even less advantage that she could not be at ease. She was dazed by the brilliance of Ella, by her blithe yet haughty carriage, her young skin, slim deft hands, youthful alertness, her fashionable voice, her fashionable politeness. She saw that Ella’s hair was white, now that her hat was off; but her hair was ironed and fluted and polished and dressed as for a fancy dress ball. Momma summed up her bewildered homage, if it was homage, in one helpless query: “What makes you powder your hair, Ella?” Ella laughed aloud. A little of the old boisterousness broke through the years of control. “As my boys would say: ‘Whaddaya mean, “powder my hair”?’ That’s my own poor old gray wool, damn it!”