"Why does she say: Mama?" asked Bessie Bell, because she just wondered, and wondered--and she did not know.

"Because it is her Mama," said a child who had just brought two more rocks to put on the chimney.

"Oh," said Bessie Bell.

That lady who was the little girl's Mama looked much as all the ladies looked.

"Are all Ladies Mamas?" asked Bessie Bell.

She hoped the child who had brought the two rocks would not laugh, for Bessie Bell knew she would cry if she did.

The little girl did not laugh at all. She was trying so carefully to put the last rock on top of the stone chimney, she said: "No, Bessie Bell: some are Mamas, and some are only just Ladies."

There. There it was again: Only-Just-Ladies.

Bessie Bell wondered how to tell which were Mamas, and which were Ladies--just Ladies.

Very often after that day she watched those who pa.s.sed the cabin where she and Sister Helen Vincula lived, and wondered which were Mamas--

And which were Ladies.

There was no rule of old or young by which Bessie Bell could tell.

Nor was it as one could tell Sisters from Just-Ladies by a way of dress. For Sisters, like Sister Helen Vincula, wore a soft white around the face, and soft long black veils, and a small cross on the breast of the dress: so that even had any not known the difference one could easily have guessed.

But for Ladies and Mamas there were none of these differences.

But Bessie Bell looked and looked and wondered, but her eyes brought to her no way of knowing.

Bessie Bell could at length think of only one way to find out the difference, and that was to ask--to let her ears help her eyes to bring to her some way of knowing.

One day, a dear old lady with white curls all around under her bonnet stopped near the playground and called Bessie Bell to her and gave her some chocolate candy, every piece of candy folded up in its own white paper.

Bessie Bell said: "Thank you, ma'am."

Then as the lady still stood by the playground Bessie Bell asked her: "Are you a Lady, ma'am?"

"I have been called so," said the lady, smiling down at Bessie Bell.

"Or are you a Mama?" asked Bessie Bell.

"Ah," said the lady; "I am a Mama, too, but all my little girls have grown up and left me."

Bessie Bell wondered how they could have done that, those little girls.

But she saw, and was so glad to see, that this lady was very wise, and that she understood all the things that little girls wonder about.

But though there was a difference, a very great difference, between Mamas and Ladies it was very hard to tell--unless you asked.

One day a large fat lady took Bessie Bell on her lap. That was very strange to Bessie Bell--to sit on top of anybody.

And the lady made a rabbit, and a pony, and a preacher, all out of a handkerchief and her nice fat fingers. And then she made with the same handkerchief and fingers a Mama holding a Baby.

Then Bessie Bell looked up at her with her wondering eyes and asked: "Are you a Lady--"

"Bless my soul!" cried the lady. "Do you hear this child? And now, come to think of it, I don't know whether I am a lady or not--"

And the lady laughed until Bessie Bell felt quite shaken up.

"Or are you a Mama?" asked Bessie Bell, when it seemed that the lady was about to stop laughing.

"So that is it?" asked the lady, and she seemed about to begin laughing again.

"Yes, I am a Mama, and I have three little girls about as funny as you are."

Another time a lady pa.s.sed by the cabin where Bessie Bell stood leaning against the little fluted white post of the gallery, and said:

"Good morning, Bessie Bell. I am Alice's Mama."

That made things so simple, thought Bessie Bell. This lady was a Mama.

And she was Alice's Mama.

Bessie Bell wished that all would tell in that nice way at once whether they were Mamas or Just-Ladies.

The next lady who pa.s.sed by the cabin also stopped to talk to Bessie Bell.

And Bessie Bell asked: "Are you a Mama or Only-Just-A-Lady?"

"I am only just a lady," the lady said, patting Bessie Bell's little tiny hand. And it was easy to see that, in Bessie Bell's mind, though Only-Just-Ladies were kind and sweet, Mamas were far greater and more important beings.

One night, when Sister Helen Vincula had put Bessie Bell to bed in the small bed that was not a crib-bed, though like that she had slept in before she had come to the high mountain, Bessie Bell still lay wide awake.

Her blue eyes were wide open and both of her pink little hands were above her head on the pillow. She was thinking, and thinking, and she forgot that she was thinking her thinking aloud, and she said:

"Alice has a mama. Robbie has a mama. Katie has a mama. Where is Bessie Bell's mama? Never mind: Bessie Bell will find a mama."

Then Sister Helen Vincula, who was wide awake, too, said:

"Ah me, ah me."

Bessie Bell said: "Sister Helen Vincula, did you call me?"

Sister Helen Vincula said:

"No, child: go to sleep."