"It is your mother's immaturity that makes you seem so--" I thought it kind to hesitate for the word, but Miss Lansdale said, again confidently:-- "Oh, but I really _am_," and this with a finality that seemed to close the incident.
Her voice had the warm little roughness of a thrush's, which sings through a throat that is loosely strung with wires of soft gold.
"In _my_ day," began Miss Caroline; but here I rebelled, no longer perceiving any good reason to be overborne by her daughter.

I could endure only a certain amount of that.
"Your day is to-day," I interrupted, "and to-morrow and many to-morrows.
You are a woman bereft of all her yesterdays.

Let your daughter have had _her_ day--let her have come to an incredible maturity.

But you stay here in to-day with me.

We won't be fit companions for her, but she shall not lack for company.