Ellen looked around the ornate room, and then at her mother, as with a challenge in behalf of loyalty, and of that which underlies externals.
"I rather guess it is," agreed Fanny, happily, "and I don't s'pose it cost half so much.

I dare say that mat on her hearth cost as much as all our plush furniture and the carpet, and it is a dreadful dull, homely thing." "Yes, it is," said Ellen.
"I wish I'd been able to keep my hands as white as Miss Lennox's, an' I wish I'd had time to speak so soft and slow," said Fanny, wistfully.

Then Ellen had her by both shoulders, and was actually shaking her with a passion to which she very seldom gave rein.
"Mother," she cried--"mother, you know better, you know there is nobody in the whole world to me like my own mother, and never will be.

It isn't being beautiful, nor speaking in a soft voice, nor dressing well, it's the being you--_you_.

You know I love you best, mother, you know, and I love my own home best, and everything that is my own best, and I always will." Ellen was almost weeping.
"You silly child," said Fanny, tenderly.