It's the Valentin blood. It's the drop of Indian blood away, 'way
back. It's their impassiveness, but it's awfully good form--when she grows
up to it."
After this, Mrs. Valentin sat silent for such an unnatural length of time
that Elsie roused herself to say something encouraging.
"I shall be all right, mother, after Sacramento. We will take a walk. The
fresh air is all I need."
She was as good as her word. The cup of tea and the twenty minutes' stroll
made such a happy difference that Mrs. Valentin sent a telegram to her
husband to say that Elsie's head was better and that she had forgotten her
trunk keys, and would he express them to her at once.
So much refreshed was Elsie that her mother handed her the letters which
had come to her share of that morning's mail. There were four or five of
them, addressed in large, girlish hands, and exhibiting the latest and
most expensive fads in stationery. Over one of them Elsie gave a shriek of
delight, an outburst so unexpected and out of character with her former
self that their distinguished fellow travelers involuntarily looked
up,--and Mrs. Valentin blushed for her child.
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