MARGARET FISHER, the buxom chaperon of HelÈne Barton, soon settled down to her life in New York as she had planned it with her friend in Hanover. The day following their landing she was again in the spacious rooms of the Modiste establishment known as “Lucile’s,” and, as of old, one of its moving spirits.

As she had predicted, she found it no difficult matter to interest Madame Lucile (a canny Scotchwoman from Glasgow by way of Dublin and London and a two years’ sojourn in “Paree”) in her young protegÉe. Madame no sooner set her shrewd eyes on HelÈne than she became at once interested. She realized at a glance the business possibilities in a girl of her refined manners, winning ways and pretty foreign speech. These qualities were certain to subdue the most petulant and exacting of her clients. And when she found that the girl also possessed both an excellent taste in colors and an unusual gift for design, she knew that a treasure had been brought to her.

HelÈne was installed in a little room at the rear devoted to the assembling of the ornaments for the finishing of those exclusive hats so coveted by the ladies of New York, and it was not long before she became indispensable to this department. Under her deft fingers and with her enthusiastic good taste and happy inspirations, lean old maids would be transformed into blushing “buds,” and faded society leaders of many seasons would reappear as enterprising and yet dignified dames. She knew instinctively when to apply velvet and where to mass flimsy, foamy billows. She knew how to bend the brim of a hat so as to bring out the good feature of a face; she would select just the very sprig of flowers and give just the right droop of plume; and she did it all with such grace, good-will and a winning smile, accentuating her actions with words spoken in so exquisite an accent, that there was no resisting her. Margaret’s prediction came true; the second month brought HelÈne an increase in her salary, and she became the happy recipient of a hundred dollars a month.

HelÈne (Madame had rebaptized her with the professional Heloise, Helen not being, in her opinion, sufficiently “French”), Madame Lucile determined, was too valuable to lose. Rather than any rival concern on the avenue should entice her from her she would double the girl’s salary. But, of course, this was only breathed to herself in the secrecy of her private office.

The two girls became closer friends than ever and grew more and more attached to each other. Margaret, in particular, seemed to have found in the younger and more cultured HelÈne an object for the satisfaction of her maternal instincts. No effort was too great, no care too exacting, if only her little friend was made the happier by it. She timed her lunch hour to coincide with HelÈne’s; she accompanied her on her shopping expeditions; she would take her away from her designing and bring her home for rest. Rather than HelÈne should go home alone, she would wait an hour for her. At the Trust Company it was Margaret who opened the bank account in her friend’s name and deposited every Monday the little surplus of wealth. She selected the style of her dresses and the material; she fussed over them, sewed them, fitted and trimmed them. She never tired of admiring the little feet, the pretty hands and the wonderful hair. The dressing of this hair for select occasions was one of Margaret’s chief delights. If her “darling” had a cold or a slight headache, she would nurse and pet her, and be the happier in doing it.

And HelÈne would accept this devotion laughingly, knowing that it was given in love, and would return that love with sweet and gentle affection. She was very happy both in her work, which was pleasant and interesting, and in their rooms, which were cozy and “homey.”

At the boarding-house Margaret Fisher was a general favorite. Her ready good-humor, her quick wit and her unaffected, if somewhat slangy, speech, always found a ready acceptance and a responsive laugh. She was ever ready with her help and sympathy, willing to listen and equal to a gossip.

HelÈne—the beautiful, reserved, lily-like maiden—was worshipped by all. From the scullery-maid with the Kerry accent to Mrs. Kane, the kindly autocrat of this little commonwealth, all bowed to her in delighted homage. The women admired her without a taint of jealousy; the two men who lived there reverenced her from afar. She seemed to them like some rare lily that had been transplanted into a city yard.

One of the men was a librarian at one of the city colleges—a ripe, old scholar; the other, a young Baltimorean, of a retiring manner, was struggling as an obscure civil engineer. They considered themselves fortunate to sit at the table and would gaze in awe on the charming young foreigner—perfectly content to behold her across the six feet of tablecloth. If either ventured on a nearer acquaintance, he would find that Miss Fisher had interposed her ample form between them.

HelÈne had not imparted to her protectress much more of her early life than had transpired at their meeting in Hanover and on the voyage across the ocean. Margaret, in the confidential atmosphere engendered by the close companionship, found the need of telling her friend all about herself. It was a simple tale, but the pathos of it drew a sympathetic response from her listener.

Margaret’s father, an educated German of good family, had come to America during the Civil War. He had been compelled to leave the Fatherland because of his activity in politics of a somewhat republican tendency. In New York he became the city editor of one of the more influential of the German newspapers. It was during this period that he met and married a German girl whose elder brother kept a small jewelry and watch-repairing shop on the East Side. He was a kind-hearted old bachelor and had been Margaret’s earliest admirer and playmate.

It was to this uncle’s home above the store that she and her mother went when her father died. A year after her father’s death, when she was fifteen, Margaret went to work at a dressmaker’s in the neighborhood. They managed to get along very comfortably together. Her uncle was kindness itself and a genius at his trade. There was no style of watch or clock he could not fix up and make keep correct time. He was an expert at chronometer work and was regularly consulted by captains of ships and even by the Navy Yard.

Six years ago, Margaret’s mother died, leaving her alone with her uncle. The old man had aged and grown quite feeble then. He longed to go back to Germany. So strong was this homesickness for his beloved Harz Mountains that the doctor thought it best to urge him to go. He went, promising to come back soon, but he never returned. He died among the pine-clad hills of his birthplace. The little property he left fell to Margaret and became the foundation for the now greatly discussed bank account.

About three years after her mother’s death she met a young man—a decent, quiet fellow, an assistant in a drug-store. She liked him. He dressed well and was very attentive and kind to her. A year later she consented to become engaged to him. They were to be married as soon as his employer had fulfilled his promise to raise his salary and give him a percentage of the business.

She was sure she did not love him; but she was in no doubt that he needed some good, capable girl to look after him. He was rather weak and vacillating; but he was good-looking and any girl would be rather proud to go out with him. Margaret put it that way, because it really expressed her mind. She didn’t see what else men were good for any way, except to be mothered and to walk out with. It was nice for them to take you out, and it felt good to have a man lean on you and come to you for advice and the help that a woman could give him.

Well, things went on very happily for some months and then she noticed that he came less frequently to the house. He would send notes instead, excusing himself for one reason or another. One evening, when she had stayed later than usual at the store to finish some dresses for the Easter season, she went into Krugler’s restaurant, at the corner of Second Avenue, for her supper, and sat down near a slight partition or screen of plants. She had scarcely begun her meal when she heard a familiar voice from the other side of the screen. Peering through the leaves of the palm she saw her Bert seated at a table with a young woman. He had his back to her, but she could hear quite distinctly what he was saying. He was talking in the most endearing words, exactly as he had talked to her. Then she heard the girl remind him of the young lady—the serious girl with the money in bank—she had seen him with. Wasn’t he engaged to be married to her? He passionately protested. It was not true, he said. He only loved her—the girl he was with now. The other couldn’t compare with her. The other was all right, but she had no heart—she was always preaching and talking about getting on. Margaret waited to hear no more. She had heard too much as it was. The next day she returned him the little gifts he had made her, including the engagement ring, and when he called she declined to see him. Since then she did not care to know any man. Of course, Bert was no loss. She knew that now, but she had liked him once. Oh, yes, men were all right in their way; but a girl was far better off not to bother herself about them. She’d get along just as well.

HelÈne kept a discreet silence as to her own opinions on that subject. She was afraid to trust herself with Margaret, least she might betray her own heart, and Margaret never again broached the subject.

In their promenades together in the city what struck HelÈne most was the people. Apparently all belonged to the same class. All were so happy, so satisfied and so well dressed. Each seemed to be going about his own business without interference from others and yet everybody was so orderly. It was all so different from what she had been accustomed to in her own country. No poverty, no soldiers, no armed policemen, no officious park keepers, no bowing and scraping before empty authority. Everybody was free to do as he liked and yet everybody seemed pleased to be decent and well-behaved. Even the children were unafraid.

In the park where she and Margaret found such enjoyment in walking or sitting, the children would come up and look their frank admiration at HelÈne, their eyes bright and their faces wreathed in smiles. To Margaret the little ones crept instinctively. She had such an inviting, motherly look about her that they knew no introduction was necessary for them to be taken into her embracing arms. It did HelÈne’s heart good to watch Margaret’s keen delight on these occasions.

HelÈne could have had no wiser guide than this friend proved to be. Margaret Fisher was a genuine native of New York, bred in its peculiar ways of life, which were at once the outcome of sharp competition and bonhomie. She seemed to have the wisdom of the serpent and the innocence of the dove. Her inexhaustible supply of wit, her humorous way of seeing things, her happy, healthy nature, gave everybody who came under her influence a sense of the reasonableness and fitness of things. “You can’t help being in a good humor when Miss Fisher is around,” Mrs. Kane truly said.

In the daily companionship of such a teacher HelÈne ripened in experience. Without acquiring the slang spoken everywhere about her, she obtained a command of English which was at once smooth and polished, though she never lost her quaintly pretty accent. Her own instinct guided her and her refinement of nature compelled from others a response which avoided the vulgar. People felt they must be different with HelÈne, so that they chose their words in speaking to her. They felt they must be on their best behavior with her.

Spring grew into summer, the more than benevolent summer of New York. The girls in Madame Lucile’s employ blossomed in colors and gowns befitting the season; but HelÈne made no change in her own dress. She retained her sombre black despite Margaret’s pleadings and Madame’s hints. And with it all she bloomed like a rare flower amid the commoner plants. Margaret would put on an air of chagrin and talk of the anxiety HelÈne was to her; but none the less she was exceedingly proud of her protegÉe. To her friends she would in mock despair say: “What chance has any girl with HelÈne, I should like to know?”

On their occasional visits to Art Exhibitions or the Museum, the old librarian was proud to act as cicerone. He had become the envy of the rest in the boarding-house, and especially of the young engineer, because of this privilege extended to him. He had even acted as their host on two occasions when they had accepted his invitation to partake of a table d’hÔte dinner at a French restaurant.

The Baltimorean listened to the recital of the enjoyment and waited patiently for his turn. He proved a good waiter. On the eve of the Fourth of July, he ventured to ask the two girls to go with him to the beach. Robert McCreedy could hardly believe his ears when his invitation was accepted. He made a careful estimate and concluded that a week’s income would about meet the occasion, and prayed that the day would be fine.

The day broke cloudless with a pitiless sun blazing down. McCreedy was happy. He did not know that the effect of the sweltering heat of the past few days on HelÈne had more to do with Margaret’s acceptance of the invitation than anything else. He thought that his patience had at last been rewarded; that the implacable duenna had thought it well to permit him a nearer access to the object of his devotions.

To HelÈne, tired and overcome by the oppressive heat, the day proved a boon and was also an experience of a novel kind. The ride to the Battery; the ferry trip to South Brooklyn; the open, swaying cars of the steam railway to the beach; the beauty of the Long Island landscape; the cool breezes of the rolling ocean—all were new to her and afforded such interest and refreshment that she forgot her weariness of brain and body and gave herself up to the enjoyment with the abandon of a girl. Everywhere were men, women and children on pleasure bent. Everybody seemed happy. She had already learned many a lesson from this wonderful democracy, but none appealed to her so strongly as did this celebration. A great humanity had assembled, as if at the call of some mysterious voice, and here they were laughing, playing, singing, care-free and happy, without a sign or a sound of discord—all members of a national family, as it were. This, indeed, was a new world—new in a sense that her people in Roumelia could never understand. It was a revelation of the human heart, an insight into the meaning of life which was denied to those who have not known true liberty and have not been permitted the free play of their finer natures.

The day came to a close but too quickly for Robert McCreedy. He had spent his wealth gladly and had known a happiness he had never known before. When Margaret, after consulting her watch, announced it was time to go home, he looked his disappointment so openly that Margaret was compelled to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCreedy,” she said, “but we must really get back.”

McCreedy knew, from her tone of voice, that there was no appeal. He must content himself with the favor that had been granted him. In the seclusion of his room, later, he relived his happy day. He would see her again to-morrow. Sufficient for the day was this joy thereof. After all, the ice had been broken and some day he might get the opportunity to take her out alone—without that dragon of her friend. Poor fellow! What dreams he permitted himself! In the hour or two before retiring he had become so rich that he was sailing in his own yacht with HelÈne, happy and radiant, by his side on the deck. And when he slept he dreamed of a magnificent home with splendid salons through which HelÈne “walked in beauty like the night,” and he by her side.

Margaret had long suspected McCreedy’s state of heart, and had taken care to keep him from HelÈne as much as possible during the day. As she sat now, with HelÈne, in their sitting-room, she looked at the girl for a sign of resentment at her manoeuvres. But she saw nothing but the evidences of the happy time she had had.

“What do you think of Mr. McCreedy?” she asked suddenly.

“He’s very nice. He was so kind and attentive, wasn’t he? I hope he didn’t spend more than he could afford.” Margaret smiled. Her lessons in economy had borne fruit in HelÈne’s mind.

“Oh, I guess he wouldn’t do that.”

“No, perhaps not.”

HelÈne spoke the last words listlessly. The reference to money sent her mind reflecting on her own life. She was so anxious to save as much money as she could spare. If Mr. Morton should come, she would then be in a position to pay him back all that he had spent on her. And autumn would soon be here, when she must fulfill her promise to write to him. What would he say when he saw her again? Ah—but would he come? Cleveland—eight hundred miles away—did people ever travel that long distance to come to New York? And if he came, he surely would approve!

“Why, honey, you’re not listening to me. I declare you’ve been in a trance for the last five minutes.” Margaret assumed an offended air. HelÈne started and blushed.

“Now come, what were you thinking of? I have an idea there’s a Count or a Prince buzzing in your little head.”

“Indeed, there is neither Count nor Prince. I was thinking of my old home. I daren’t think of men with a man-hater like you near me.”

“Well, I won’t press you, my dear. But I’m not a man-hater,” and Margaret’s voice softened. “I sometimes think it would do me good to have a man to fuss about and look after. Men are such helpless things. They wobble from one pretty girl to another, and I believe they can’t help it. What they want is some woman to mother them. I really think I would want to mother a man just as I want to take care of babies, and as I love to take care of you, dearie!”

HelÈne looked at her friend. Poor, lonely Margaret, she thought, God had made her to be a mother. The revelation into her friend’s soul was too sacred to speak about. With instinctive courtesy she changed her tone covering what she had seen with a veil of light words:

“I’m sure, Margy dear, there are men who are not what you call ‘wobblers.’ I haven’t known many, but I’m convinced there are loyal and true men. My father was one.”

“I have no answer to that, Helen. I believe it. But as there are not many girls like you, there cannot be many men like your father was. Well, dear, it’s getting late and we ought to be in bed. To-morrow will be another ‘scorcher,’ and we have the new models to go over. And this weather doesn’t improve the dispositions of the women who want to wear corsets two sizes too small for them—like Madame Lucile does.”HelÈne laughed. “Now you are not just to her. I don’t think she does that.”

“Don’t you, sweetheart? Well, never mind, I know better. A woman would be anything rather than fat. Why, even I am sometimes afraid to eat.”

“Oh, Margy, how can you! You are not a bit stout, only big and strong. Everybody admires you, and Madame is always praising your fine figure.”

“You’re an angel, my dear, and wouldn’t hurt the feelings of a tax-collector. Give me a kiss, my dear, and good night.”

“Good night, Margy, and thank you for the happy day.”

It was in such intimate talks that Margaret, the strong, protecting tree to the slender vine, HelÈne, proved her friendship. In breeding and education the two girls were poles apart, but the native virtues and sterling character in each drew them together in an abiding love. A daughter of the people and a child of an ancient nobility thus met on the ground of their common humanity. With the passing of the days, HelÈne found new interest in her work and became more accustomed to the new life. Margaret, seeing HelÈne’s happiness, was happy herself. Sunshine without and contentment within, with not a cloud on the horizon of their lives!

Petty incidents like these may seem unworthy of record; but life is made up of such small happenings. Most of us come into this world and flit more or less swiftly and pleasantly through the playground of our childhood and youth as though it were but the antechamber to some richly furnished parlor. When we enter the longed-for parlor, we find in it labor and sorrow in plenty. We eat, sleep, dream, enjoy ourselves a little and then one day we awaken to the sad reality that we are no longer young. Some kind friend will remark: “Why, your hair is growing gray!” Another will sympathize and say: “Ah, we are not as young as we used to be.” He uses the polite plural, but we know he has a very definite singular in mind. And then comes the day when the roomy arm-chair is inviting, and the favorite ballad which once whispered gladness, now only recalls times long, long past. Then it is that the chatter of youth is a forgotten language; that the faces of women show only the rouge on cheek and lip and not the glorious eye; when an invitation to the dance compels us to the confession, “I am too old to dance,” and to the thought, “did she really want me for a partner?” when our conversation slips into the question, “do you remember?” when the past is our present and the future a dread. Ah, if youth knew the fulfillment of the promises of life, would he or she be gay? It is in our memory that we live, and memory is but the storehouse of little incidents. They are the little colored stones, which form the mosaic background of life. The figures may vary, the genre may change, but the background is always the same.