"Father gave it to her when
they were married, but really, mother was like me--she never cared
for it."
"Yes, Alice, you are much as mother was," returned Ruth, with gentle
dignity. "You are growing more like her every day."
"Am I, really?" and in delight the younger girl sprang up, her grief
over the vase for the moment forgotten. "Am I really like her, Ruth?
I'm so glad! Tell me more of her. I scarcely remember her. I was only
seven when she died, Ruth."
"Eight, my dear. You were eight years old, but such a tiny little
thing! I could hold you in my arms."
"You couldn't do it now!" laughed Alice, with a downward glance at
her plump figure. Yet she was not over-plump, but with the rounding
curves and graces of coming womanhood.
"Well, I couldn't hold you long," laughed Ruth. "But I wonder what is
keeping daddy? He telephoned that he would come right home. I'm so
anxious to have him tell us all about it!"
"So am I. Probably he had to stay to arrange about rehearsals,"
replied Alice. "What theater did he say he was going to open at?"
"The New Columbia.
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