The contrast was startling.
"I am Elizabeth Bailey," said the girl quietly, as if she would break a piece of hard news gently.

"My father was your son John." "The idea!" said the new grandmother, and promptly fell back upon her pillows with her hand upon her heart.

"John, John, my little John.

No one has mentioned his name to me for years and years.

He never writes to me." She put up a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and sobbed.
"Father died five years ago," said Elizabeth.
"You wicked girl!" said the maid.