THE halcyon days of that summer were filled with work and innocent enjoyment for HelÈne and Margaret. The girls were so happy that the gods themselves must have become envious, for they sent one of their number to destroy their happiness.

On days when the heat was oppressive, the girls left their work at an earlier hour than usual and would then walk along Fifth Avenue. At that hour the streams of people from shops and business places mingled with the current of those on pleasure bent. In crossing the thoroughfare, HelÈne and Margaret got stalled. HelÈne, undecided whether to advance or return, became confused and before she realized it a pair of spirited horses in an open landau was almost on top of her. Margaret seeing the danger, rushed up and pushed her into safety. In doing so, however, she herself was caught by the pole of the carriage, and thrown down and trampled on by one of the horses.

A crowd gathered immediately and Margaret, now unconscious, was carried to the sidewalk. HelÈne, deathly pale and speechless with horror, held the bleeding head of her beloved comrade in her lap. A policeman who had promptly arrived on the scene rushed to ring for an ambulance, when a richly dressed lady of commanding appearance offered to drive the young woman to the nearest hospital. She was the occupant of the carriage which had been the cause of the accident. Willing bystanders, assisted by the officer of the law, lifted the lifeless form into the landau into which HelÈne was invited by the owner.

At the hospital HelÈne was not allowed to go into the ward, but was requested to await the doctor’s report in the waiting-room. Almost beside herself with anxiety, she sat in a stupor and could scarcely answer the usual questions put to her by the doctor in charge.

The lady in whose carriage she had come, sat mutely near the window nervously tapping the sill, staring absently into the court without. Some questions were put to her also, but she, too, was too overcome to answer coherently.

In a few minutes, a terribly long time to HelÈne, the nurse returned and whispered that her friend was resting in bed and that a cursory examination had revealed no serious injuries. The head physician would be in shortly and would make a more thorough examination. She could wait until then, HelÈne was told. The other lady was given the same information.

The strain of her pent-up feelings relieved by the nurse’s report, HelÈne broke into sobs. She thanked God in her heart that her dear Margaret would not die as she had feared.

“Pardon me, miss,” came a sympathetic voice, “can I be of any help to you?”

HelÈne looked up and recognized the dignified lady in whose carriage she had been driven to the hospital.

“I am glad to learn that your friend is not seriously hurt. I am Mrs. Van Dusen. It was my carriage that was the cause of the unfortunate accident to your friend. Won’t you let me help you?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Van Dusen, but I am scarcely able to think. If my friend, Miss Fisher, is not very badly injured I should like to take her home. It was my fault....”HelÈne broke down, the tears choking her voice.

The unusual beauty, the sweet, refined voice and manner of the young woman impressed the lady. She sat down near HelÈne and said in kindly tones:

“You must not distress yourself, my dear. Your friend will be well taken care of here. I will see to that. I am deeply grieved the accident occurred. I saw you and your friend step right in front of the horses and called out to the coachman; but it was too late. I want to do all I can to help Miss Fisher. Has she any relatives or friends who ought to be notified? My son is outside and he will gladly take any message.”

“She has no friend other than myself. For her sake I shall be glad to accept any assistance you can give me. It was in saving me that she got hurt herself. Oh, my poor lovely Margaret....”

“There, there, my dear, it is not so bad after all. Compose yourself. Here comes the nurse.”

The nurse informed HelÈne that Miss Fisher was conscious and the doctor would allow her to see her friend for a minute—but she must not be excited.

HelÈne rose eagerly and walked rapidly into the ward. Behind a screen, on a narrow cot, Margaret lay white and helpless. Her head was heavily bandaged so that only her eyes showed. On seeing HelÈne, she smiled wistfully into the face that was bending over her.

“Hello, darling! I’m all right—only a little bruised. I’ll be out in no time. Wasn’t it lucky? But who’s going to look after you while I’m here, little one?”

The nurse approached and whispered to HelÈne: “Just say a few kind words for the present. You can come another time.”“Oh, Margaret, I’m so happy to see you. Don’t worry about me, dearest. I’ll come and look you up as often as I can.”

Margaret looked back her content; she was too ill to speak.

The nurse touched HelÈne on the arm. It was time to leave. Kissing the pale lips, she retired slowly, looking back at the wan face until the door had been closed on her.

In the waiting-room she found a tall young man by the side of Mrs. Van Dusen.

“This is my son,” said the lady to HelÈne, “he will take any message, Miss—eh——”

“My name is Miss Barton. Thank you, there is no message I wish sent. I shall wait here for the physician’s report. I will tell Madame Lucile, myself, later.”

The tall, carefully groomed and good-looking young man approached, hat in hand:

“Permit me, Miss Barton, to go to her for you. I have a carriage waiting.”

“Thank you; but it will be better if I see the lady. Madame Lucile is our employer.”

“Here is my card, Miss Barton,” said Mrs. Van Dusen. “Let me know if I can be of any service. I shall inquire regularly at this hospital and my son will see the superintendent and arrange that special attention be given Miss Fisher. I am deeply grieved at the accident and hope sincerely that Miss Fisher will not suffer. Good-bye, Miss Barton. Are you coming, Howard?”

The young man came up to HelÈne and said in a kind voice:

“Pardon me for suggesting it, Miss Barton, but you ought to consult a lawyer on this matter.”

“Howard, what do you mean?” exclaimed his mother angrily. “What should Miss Barton consult a lawyer about?”

“Well, mother, Miss Barton’s friend may suffer in other ways than from the injuries she has received.”

“Well, of course, I am not going to shirk any responsibility. The young lady has my card. Come.”

“Don’t forget, Miss Barton, to let my mother know. May I have your address?”

“Thank you, Mr. Van Dusen, there is no necessity for that. Good afternoon, madam.”

Mother and son had no sooner left than the nurse came in bringing the physician in charge. Dr. Loomis relieved the girl’s mind by telling her that her Miss Fisher was in no danger. She would remain for the present in the ward until she had recovered sufficiently from the shock. No bones had been broken, but the bruise on the head was rather severe. Every care would be given her friend. “Don’t be anxious, my dear young lady,” he said, “we shall get her quite well again. Good-bye!”

The nurse informed HelÈne that she could visit her friend every day and that Mrs. Van Dusen, who was a patroness of the hospital, had left word that the patient should be most carefully attended to. HelÈne thanked the woman.

From the hospital she hurried to Madame Lucile’s home and was greatly relieved that the lady took the news as she did. Madame promised to look after everything. HelÈne, for the first time since she had been in America, went home alone.

And now began the trying and anxious time. Every day HelÈne called at the hospital, but was not permitted access to the sick-room. Margaret had an attack of brain fever and could recognize no one. She would leave for Madame Lucile’s in tears. There she worked for two to drown her anxiety. But the lonely evenings and tearful nights followed and they had to be borne by herself alone.

Mrs. Van Dusen had called on Madame Lucile and had offered to defray the expenses; but HelÈne firmly refused to accept the offer. Margaret and she could afford to pay them themselves.

Whenever HelÈne visited the hospital, she would find Mr. Van Dusen waiting, ready with a courteous request to be of service, and repeated the offer his mother had made to Madame Lucile. But HelÈne declined both. On one occasion he asked permission to call on Miss Barton. This she also declined. When Margaret recovered from the fever, he sent her flowers almost daily. Twice HelÈne received a large box of beautiful lilies at the boarding-house with his card. She wrote him a polite note of thanks in which she told him that she would take the flowers to Margaret.

At the end of three weeks, Margaret was declared to be out of all danger. Her wounds had healed and the bandages had been removed. On the left temple showed a livid scar, but the nurse assured HelÈne that this would disappear in time. In a week Margaret would be allowed to go home; but the doctor advised a rest at the seashore or in the mountains before returning to work.

Mrs. Van Dusen claimed the right to provide for this rest, at least, and begged Margaret to accept the hospitality of her country place in the Kittatinnies, which was only an hour’s ride from New York, and where the mountain air was cool and invigorating. “I have been so unhappy, Miss Fisher,” she said, “about the accident, and you’ve let me do nothing.”

Margaret compromised by agreeing to stay at a farm-house near Mrs. Van Dusen’s place and to use that good lady’s carriage. But she insisted on paying for her board. Mrs. Van Dusen was only too glad that she had been able to prevail over Margaret’s independent spirit to that extent. Her visits to the hospital had made her acquainted with the girl’s fine nature, both in the courage she had evinced in pain, and in the devotion she showed to HelÈne. Mrs. Van Dusen could not help but look up to so grand and yet so finely democratic a character.

In the younger girl, with the gentle, well-bred bearing which, as she readily saw, but veiled the reticence of inborn dignity, she had found a rare personality. A girl entirely aloof from her surroundings and who was yet self-supporting and happy in the small circle of her life. Mrs. Van Dusen, the society leader and proud wife of one of the wealthy men of New York, could not fail to see that this simple, dignified girl was her equal in everything but worldly gifts. She tried hard to pierce the armor of modesty and unselfishness in which the girl clothed herself; but its very inoffensiveness proved it to be a stronger protection than anything else could have been.

Her son, Howard, had confessed to her that the younger of the two girls had made a deep impression on him, but, he ruefully added, “I’ve not made much headway with her.”

To HelÈne, the American custom which permitted a young man and girl to meet and converse freely and alone, was one which she either did not understand or did not approve. Van Dusen’s escort to the boarding-house was rather suffered than accepted. Upon arriving at the home, she would bid him good-bye, and take no notice of his hints for an invitation to call. His floral gifts she invariably transferred to Margaret. He had to admit frankly that he had not made a very favorable impression. His mother wisely said nothing.At the Post’s farm-house Margaret found herself comfortably established on the second floor. She wrote every day to HelÈne glowing accounts of the beautiful country and urged her to come and visit her for a few days. The people were nice and kind and there was a quaint room which she could have all to herself. She was getting quite strong again and had acquired a tremendous appetite. She pleaded so earnestly that HelÈne finally agreed to go if Madame Lucile gave the permission.

Certainly the prospect of a vacation did look alluring. She had been working hard during Margaret’s illness and had been very lonely and depressed in spirits. She had even denied herself the few hours of relaxation she had enjoyed when Margaret was at home, and had kept herself confined during the hottest days—a trying ordeal to anyone living in New York, and especially so to a foreigner.

The canny lady from Glasgow was too pleased to extend a vacation to Mademoiselle Heloise, and thus it happened that by the Saturday before Labor Day HelÈne had made all her preparations and was ready for the great event.

As she was utterly ignorant of ways and means, Mr. Diderot, the fatherly librarian, was duly impressed to act as escort to the dreaded Terminal and Ferry. Mrs. Kane, with many motherly admonitions, kissed her good-bye and put her in charge of her elderly lodger. The old gentleman, proud of his duty, had spruced himself up and assuming a youthful gait, walked vigorously by her side carrying the suit-case. His hailing of the street car was done with a dignity which can be compared only to the bearing of the Mayor escorting the President of the United States to the City Hall.

In the waiting-room at the Ferry, HelÈne was glad to sit in the cool protection from the heat while Mr. Diderot negotiated the various transactions necessary to obtaining the ticket and checking the baggage for the particular place in the New Jersey vastness to which his charge was bound. The crowd of people hurrying here, there and everywhere, so bewildered the poor girl that she hardly dared to lift her eyes. She almost regretted her step in taking such a long journey alone into an unknown country.

At last her escort returned. She rose eagerly and he led her into the pushing crowd where she was gently propelled through a narrow strait flanked by two sharp-eyed men armed with shining punchers, into a spacious room filled with a motley assortment of people of both sexes and all ages.

A slight shock followed by a tremor through the wood flooring startled HelÈne. But Mr. Diderot explained that she need not be afraid—it was only the arrival of the ferry-boat. At the opened gateway, he handed her the ticket for Charlotteville and wishing her a pleasant journey he bowed in his punctilious way and left her to the mercy of the crowd that soon pushed her on to the boat. What a hurrying and scurrying and jostling and hustling! Men with packages and suit-cases, women with suit-cases and packages and children; men with golf bags and women with dogs; children clinging frantically to their mothers’ skirts—all perspiring and all craning their necks to swallow the river’s breeze, thankful of this respite from the city’s heat.

A clanking of bells, a shrill, long-drawn whistle, a clinking of chains and she was off—off on her wonderful journey across the majestic river to the hazy, mysterious shore of Jersey—her first travels into America. She gazed about her at the people sitting on the low seats and standing in the doorways; they seemed to her to be different from those she had met in New York. The men were so important, the women so self-conscious and the children so droll.

Through the open windows shone the reflection from the waters of the river, the waves of which sparkled in the sunlight. Busy little tugs saucily stretched their prows; cumbersome ferry-boats glided past as mountainous shadows. The fresh air and the wide expanse gave her a sense of assurance. She decided to risk the outside platform.

As she stood up to go out a sudden recollection made her start. Where was her suit-case? For a moment she felt as if her heart was sinking; but the next moment she gave a sigh of relief as she remembered that Mr. Diderot had “checked” the case to Charlotteville. She felt for the precious pasteboard in her handbag and smiled when she found it was safely there.

On the platform without she looked about her drinking in the wonderful expanse of water and free air and blue sky. The great river with its baggage and floats, tugs and steamers, sailing vessels and a big liner steaming slowly down towards the Bay, little launches and graceful yachts, appeared to her like the river of life itself. Looming up and drawing nearer and nearer, the cavernous train-shed flanked by stupendous grain elevators, looked to her like gigantic fortifications guarding and preventing a possible entry into the green country beyond. Where did the railroad begin, she wondered?

And now the people began their jostling and hustling once more. Packages were seized and children grabbed at the sound of the clanking of chains and the turning of windlass. Then came the rattling of iron gates being opened and the living stream poured itself on to the land.For a moment she looked about her, bewildered, but seeing a uniformed individual, she plucked up courage to ask him the way to her train. He scarcely deigned to notice her, but with a motion behind him he said: “Track number four to your left.” HelÈne was no wiser, but she dared not risk another inquiry and walked with the crowd. She heard a benevolent looking elderly person in a magnificent uniform and gold-laced cap singing out some words she could not understand. She found her courage, however, and put her inquiry to him. To her relief he led her to the car and even assisted her to mount the steps. The quick transition from the outer glare to the dark interior caused her to falter; but seeing that other people were making free with the cushioned seats, she chose one for herself opposite a wholesome looking, stout lady and a small girl. She was too timid to look about her and was almost afraid to return the happy smile of the little child across the aisle. At last came the long cry “All aboard,” followed by a hissing noise and the train—her train—moved slowly out.

She was really on her great journey! As the engine gained headway the train passed the pillars along the track and dived into a cavernous deep cut on to a long trestle over the housetops. Then winding its way between simmering and smoky factories, past ugly board fences and stretches of open land covered with rubbish, it thundered over a bridge spanning a broad expanse of muddy water. Round a sharp curve with a shriek as if of desperation, and there she was in a lovely meadow gleaming green in the sunlight, the reeds and the bulrushes waving in the breeze—the country! America—the long sought for land of romance—the New World!

Her heart beat with the excitement of the rush, her eyes fixed on the swiftly moving landscape. The deep rose color of the giant mallows enlivens the sage green of the reeds; narrow veins of tidewater wend their courses with almost geometrical directness through the dark muck of the salt meadows; in the distance are seen the rounded humps of dwarfed hills and the tall smoke-stacks of factories. Then another river is crossed—a broad stream with shallow barges loaded with crimson bricks and yellow clay. The landscape gradually changes to cultivated farmlands. Clumps of trees, cottages and cows—real live cows grazing along the hedgerows—appear and disappear. Through the opening in the foliage are seen small villas and occasionally more pretentious houses; lawns and stone walls; highways with carriages and bicycles. Another rush into a deep cut walled in with rocks and then a gentle gliding into the open revealing a hilly country with houses, gardens, rows of trees and avenues. With a rumble, a short bridge over a stream traversing a deep green pasture is crossed and the train rushes through a quiet street. Out of the village with a noise as of many waters and into another cut flanked by a rocky ledge dripping with moisture and overhung with brambles that almost brush the windows of the cars. Then once more into the open, rolling land.

On and on, northward, the train speeds. Now and again it stops at some small station with a grinding noise and, after a few passengers alight, the engine bell rings once more, the hissing of the brakes deafens the ear, and with hoarse puffs and groans, it is off again, squeaking, bumping, swaying with dust and cinders floating and flying into the cars.

It is all a stunning, bewildering, amazing and wonderful experience to HelÈne. She finds herself speculating as to what will come next, hoping it won’t last long, and wishing it wouldn’t be over quickly. She is under the fascinating spell of quick motion through space and is in a continual tremor of excited anticipation.

And now, all at once, the landscape changed entirely. Beautiful valleys, fine streams shaded by giant trees, broad fields, endless levels of tasseled maize moving in the wind passed by her like a swiftly moving panorama. The hills became more abrupt, the mountains shut out the horizon. Houses were now fewer and smaller. The mirror of a lake gleamed between dark foliage. A weather-beaten gray structure resembling a wrecked whaler, though it was only an ice-house, causes HelÈne to start back as its black shadow darkened the windows. Then came a grinding of iron wheels on the metal, a creaking and a scraping, the train began to slow down, and with a shock it pulled up at the station—Charlotteville.

She doesn’t realize that this is her goal until the conductor speaks to her and a begrimed brakeman grabs her bags with a “your station, miss.” HelÈne follows with a sinking of the heart and is left, standing forlorn on the hot, dried boards of the platform, contemplating a number of boxes, trunks, plows and lawn-mowers which lie around. She gazes after the fast disappearing train utterly at a loss what to do or where to turn.

“Be ye lookin’ for somebody, miss?” The question came to her in a quavering, falsetto voice.

Turning quickly she beheld a whiskered nondescript of a man looking at her with shrewd eyes and a dry smile on his thin lips.

“Yes, sir,” she answered; “Mr. Post was to meet me.”

“I guess, it’s Bill Post ye mean, miss. Thar’s his team—that sorrel over yonder. I guess I’ll tell Artie.”

It was Bill Post’s team all right—the large blondish horse of the breed of hard working cousin of a percheron and a box-like wagon on the driver’s seat of which a boy of tender years with the face of a Methuselah, sat humped. The whiskered owner of the falsetto voice deposited HelÈne’s valise on the tailboard of the wagon and helped her to a seat by the side of the silent and prematurely aged Artie who, without opening his lips or moving a facial muscle, gave a peculiar chuckle, and the noble steed was off at a heavy, leisurely amble.

“Git ap, Major!” came from the tightly closed lips of the boy, and at a slightly faster gait they skirted the long, rambling frame building with the sign, “John P. Brown’s Hotel,” the guests of which on the stoop stared inquiringly after the ill-assorted pair on the wagon. Next came an unpretentious structure greatly in need of the painter’s services bearing the legend, “Post Office.” Passing this they entered a gray highway, bordered with dust-covered bushes and weeds.

The first part of the drive lay across an unattractive stretch of level fields baked hard by months of constant sunlight, the green of the sparse vegetation of which seemed as though it were struggling hard to overcome the all-enveloping gray. The air vibrated with the heat and was laden with floating particles of dust. HelÈne’s spirits sank. Was this the beautiful, wild rural America? Her eyes were smarting and her throat parched and itching. Suddenly the vehicle turned round a sharp bend in the dust-covered road to a short bridge with a somewhat elevated approach.

What a miraculous change! And oh, what a blessed relief! Under the rattling boards of the bridge ran swiftly the most refreshing of clear waters on which graceful fronds floated and trembled in the current. The banks of this stream were fresh in green and resplendent in the gay colors of flowers. A little beyond the road were deep shadowy woods of giant trees with moss-covered trunks. The bright foliage was altogether free of the oppressive dust. The brilliant yellow of the golden-rod vied with the heliotrope and the purple of wild asters to form a charming foreground inviting to the shady depths beyond. HelÈne was enchanted.

“What is the name of this pretty stream?” she risked in her meekest and softest of tones. She was really afraid to speak to this boy of twelve, with the serious immobile face that appeared so supernaturally indifferent to mere worldly things. It was almost a sacrilege to disturb so calm and superior a being.

“Pequannock.” And then, as if he had condescended too greatly, “Git ap, Major!” The rest was silence.

But the ice was broken, for when they passed an opening in the wood which showed a large house with broad, sloping lawns in front of it, he volunteered the information, “Mr. Van Dusen’s place.”

HelÈne was greatly relieved. He was just a boy like any other boy, after all, and not a youthful Cyclops or a Rapunzle. She asked more questions—about the district, about Miss Fisher, about himself—to all of which he replied in sentences of gradually increasing length. So that when at the end of the two miles’ drive which took the ungainly horse half an hour to cover, they drew up before a newly painted house with a row of fine old maples shading it, she and the youthful “whip,” had become fast friends.

Margaret had spied the family vehicle in the distance and was at the gate to meet HelÈne. Affectionate greetings exchanged, HelÈne was shown to her room and ordered to remove the stains of travel.

“I’m just too happy for words to have you here,” exclaimed Margaret.

HelÈne looked at her friend and was delighted to see that she had improved greatly. Her cheeks showed the return of color, the scar on the temple had lost its dull purple, and the expression on her face was just the same Margy’s of old.

As they were descending the stairs, Margaret whispered: “They are dying to see you; but they wouldn’t for the world let you see their curiosity. We must go to them in the kitchen.”

“Mrs. Post, I’ve brought my friend, Miss Barton.”

Mrs. Post, a painfully plain and stolidly built woman of middle age, was busily engaged at the range, cooking. She turned a kindly face on hearing Margaret’s voice.

“Pleased to meet ye, Miss Barton.” She wiped her hands deliberately on a clean apron and let them drop resignedly. Then, seeing the hand of HelÈne stretched towards her, she seized it with a glad smile.

“So ye be Miss Fisher’s friend, be ye? Maybe ye’re tired after yer long trip, hain’t ye, miss?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Post, the journey was delightful and new; especially the drive to the house.”

“Waal, I guess it be. I ain’t had a ride ter the city for nigh on five years. I mean Paterson. I’ve never been to Noo York all my life. But ain’t ye hungry? Dinner’ll be most ready in an hour—can ye wait that long, miss?”

HelÈne could and gladly would.

The two friends retired to rest in the shade of the roomy porch, and to exchange confidences. There were not many but, such as they were, they were interesting to them since they were born of their own lives.

Margaret betrayed an anxiety lest others who were more wealthy and could offer more pleasure and comforts, might entice HelÈne away from her. Her questions were carefully framed, however, and HelÈne replied frankly and freely. She had not seen Mr. Van Dusen more than she could help. She had really thought little or nothing about him. Her mind had been too much occupied with her work and with thinking of Margaret.

Margaret, however, was not quite satisfied and persisted in putting more questions all bearing on the same subject, until HelÈne was quite puzzled.

“What is it you are driving at, Margy? Tell me, now—what’s in your head?”

Margaret looked into the honest eyes of her friend, clear as a June sky, and was satisfied.

“I guess, nothing, my dear,” she said, “nothing at all. I love you so that I suspect everybody has designs on your affections. I guess I’m just a jealous, selfish old thing. Forget all about it.”

After the mid-day meal Margaret, in obedience to the doctor’s orders, retired to her room for a rest. HelÈne, left to herself, took a book and recalling a shady nook she had passed on her way to the farm-house, crossed the road and sought its seclusion.