AS this Saturday was to be the last of the half-holidays of the summer, Margaret and HelÈne were devoting it to replenishing their wardrobes for the coming autumn. Monday would be “Fall Opening” day, with its resumption of longer working hours, and no other opportunity would be given them for this most necessary preparation for the winter.

The avenue was crowded. Idle promenaders mingled with people hurrying to and from work, all exhibiting, in dress and manner, the many phases of life in the metropolis. A touch of crispness in the air gave warning of the change in the season.

Margaret, broad and commanding, walked by the side of HelÈne as though protecting the slender figure in black from the press about them. Bent on their important affairs they stepped briskly along regardless of those about them and arrived at the gunsmith’s at the very instant of Michael Sweeney’s mishap.

Michael, bent and perspiring with the effort of collecting the scattered objects, straightened up to allow the two ladies to pass. Morton, at that moment, turned and saw one of them skip gracefully aside and then catch up with her companion’s gait. In that same instant Morton experienced a sudden singing in his brain followed by an association of ideas and an awakening of memory. He became dimly conscious of something familiar about the graceful skip of the young woman in black, and looked searchingly at the face beneath the broad-brimmed hat and veil. At once he made an undignified jump from the carriage step and was walking rapidly after the two girls.

He caught up with them and looked sharply as he passed; the next instant he had stopped right in front of them.

“Comtesse HelÈne!” he exclaimed, “you here?”

HelÈne shot a frightened look at the man before them.

“Mr. Morton!” The silvery voice bathed him in beatific memories. He saw nothing but the girl; nay, it may be doubted if he even saw her. He had taken the little hand which had been involuntarily stretched out to him and he now held it firmly as though fearful it might slip away from him, his face mirrored with his emotions. The rest of creation did not exist; it contained but this girl and himself.

“Comtesse HelÈne—for once fortune has favored me—I am so glad, so glad.” He could find no other words.

“Oh, Mr. Morton, I wrote you last night and mailed the letter this morning. And that I should meet you to-day of all days!”

“Pardon me, but I guess you’ve forgotten me,” interposed Margaret in her driest of drawls. “Won’t you introduce me, Helen?”

John’s face flushed and HelÈne looked prettily embarrassed.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Margy,” and then turning to John smilingly, she said slowly and distinctly: “Miss Helen Barton has the honor to present to Mr. Morton her dear friend and chum, Miss Margaret Fisher.”

Margaret offered her hand with somewhat cold reserve. This entrance of a male friend into her shy ward’s acquaintance was both unexpected and inexplicable. Mr. Morton looked all right—too much so, she thought with a tinge of resentment.

Morton, by this time, had regained his composure, and shook Margaret’s hand heartily.

“Now that we have been properly made acquainted with each other, may I inquire where you ladies are bound for? It is a long time since I last saw Miss-er-Barton. Have you had luncheon?”

No, they had not. And then, to Margaret’s astonishment, the timid, ingenuous HelÈne immediately accepted the offer which followed. On their way to the hotel, Morton did his best to appear calm and divided his attentions equally between the two girls. When they were settled comfortably near a window looking out on the avenue of one of New York’s famous hostelries, Margaret could not help speculating as to who this man was. He evidently possessed Ali Baba’s countersign, for he was waited on most assiduously. A seat at this particular hotel had always seemed to her to be the reward of the world’s elect. She glanced inquiringly at HelÈne, who was all unconscious of what was passing through her friend’s mind, and to Margaret’s increasing wonder HelÈne was taking the whole affair as if a luncheon at the Waldorf were an everyday occurrence. With the utmost sang-froid she removed her gloves and, to Morton’s delight, the protecting veil. Her eyes were sparkling with a light Margaret had never before seen in them. Who and what was this Mr. Morton? She was becoming really jealous of this interloper. She remembered that Helen had once casually referred to a Mr. Morton she had known “in the old country.” But this man was unquestionably an American! She watched him closely and noted the animation in look and tone whenever he spoke to Helen. Then she remembered that on meeting her in the avenue he had addressed her as “Countess.” What did he mean? Margaret was both puzzled and hurt.

Morton felt a restraint in himself and rightly judged that a similar feeling existed in the girls. He made an effort to remove it. Turning to Margaret, he said: “I cannot tell you, Miss Fisher, how glad I am to have met Miss Barton. When we said good-bye to each other last it was thousands of miles from here, and I suppose we both find it difficult to realize that the world is a very small place after all. You will, therefore, pardon me, I hope, for seeming unattentive. But I promise to behave better.”

Margery at once saw the situation now. She guessed they would have many things to say to each other which her presence prevented them discussing. “Two is company and three is a crowd,” she said to herself.

Smiling amiably in response to Morton’s explanation, she turned to HelÈne and said:

“Helen, dear, I’m sure you and Mr. Morton have much to say to each other. Now, please, don’t mind me. I am going to devote myself to the good things I see before me, and then I can enjoy looking at the styles of the women passing by the window. This is a rare treat for me.”

HelÈne said nothing, but a tell-tale blush spoke volumes. Morton laughed and said that Miss Fisher was right; he’d take full advantage of her forbearance.

Suiting his action to the word he drew his chair more closely to HelÈne, and before many minutes had passed the two had quite forgotten Margaret’s presence.

“I have kept my promise, Mr. Morton. I sent the letter this morning and it would have reached you on Monday—the first day of autumn. You will believe that I have never forgotten your kindness to me, Mr. Morton. It was, indeed, not ingratitude that kept me silent.”

“I am too happy to think of finding fault. Now that we have met again, I shall say not a word of censure. You are looking very well. Ah, Miss Barton, I give you warning that you won’t lose me again. To think that you should have been in New York for these five long months when I have searched the continent of Europe for you!”

“I know now, Mr. Morton, that it was, perhaps, wrong of me not to have communicated with you earlier. But I am very happy now.”

“I cannot tell you how glad I am!”

“I have been very content of late in my independence. It makes me proud to be able to say that.”

“I can well believe it,” responded Morton thoughtfully.

“But—Mr. Morton—it is all owing to Margy. She was and still is my good angel. I don’t know what I should have done without her. She has been my comfort and stay and the most patient and dearest friend in the world.”

HelÈne stretched her arm across the table and pressed Margaret’s hand, the tears filling her eyes. Margaret blushed and stroked HelÈne’s slender fingers. Praise always called up her innate modesty of nature. “You think too much of me, darling,” she whispered, smiling happily.

Morton looked at Margaret keenly. This was an unusual woman, he thought, as he noted the broad forehead and firm yet kindly mouth. He would not forget her kindness to the orphaned girl.

During the meal Margaret kept stealing glances at HelÈne. She could scarcely explain the nature of the change she now saw. This erstwhile quiet, simple maiden might be a princess, so queenly did she bear herself and so beautiful was she in her animation. “What a difference a man makes!” she thought bitterly, “especially if he is the right man,” she added as an afterthought.

The luncheon over Morton remembered that he ought to have been on his way to Tarrytown.

“Will you excuse me for a moment, ladies? My mother expects me home, and I ought to send word to her that I will be delayed. Have you any engagement for this evening, Miss Barton?”

“No, Mr. Morton,” HelÈne replied, “but I must not keep you from your family and friends.”

“Miss Barton, I have been in great good luck to-day, and I should like to take every advantage of it. Shall we say dinner at seven and the theatre after? Help me, Miss Fisher, won’t you?”

Morton was longing to be alone with HelÈne, and as he did not quite understand the relationship which existed between the two girls, he put the question hoping that she would take the initiative. He was determined not to part from HelÈne until he had had an opportunity to hear her whole story from her own lips.

Margaret’s practical nature saw more than the surface of things showed, and she had seen sufficient to know that she was de trop—to the man, at any rate.

“HelÈne, dear,” she said, “you have had enough of me for one day. Make your plans without considering me. I expect Mr. Van Dusen this evening, so that I cannot avail myself of Mr. Morton’s kind invitation. You go. I am sure you and he must have a great deal to talk about. Mr. Morton, let me thank you for including me in your invitation.”

HelÈne seemed somewhat uneasy. Before, however, she could reply to Margaret’s suggestion, she heard Morton say:“You are quite right, Miss Fisher, Miss Barton and I have a great many things to talk over. You are very kind. Am I to have the pleasure, Miss Barton?”

HelÈne had decided. “I shall be very pleased to dine with you, Mr. Morton; but I do not care to see a play for some time yet.” Then turning to Margaret she asked: “You are sure, Margy, you don’t mind?”

“Not at all, my dear. Mr. Morton, I have acted as guardian to Helen for the past five months, and have been very strict, as you see. Perhaps I have been selfish; but Helen has been nowhere without me. She is very dear to me. You may, therefore, consider it a great compliment that I am willing to place this little treasure of mine in your care. But you must promise that you will look after her, won’t you?”

“I am honored, Miss Fisher, and beg to assure you that I deeply appreciate your trust. I shall take your place with Miss Barton.” Morton smiled, fully appreciating this unusual anxiety on Miss Fisher’s part.

“Will you excuse me now, for a few minutes, while I ’phone to my mother?”

Margaret followed him with her eyes as Morton wound his way between the tables. HelÈne sat gazing dreamily out of the window absorbed in her thoughts. Margaret turned to her friend.

“Well, my dear, am I to know all about him? I am bursting with curiosity, you know; but don’t tell me more than you care to.”

HelÈne turned her clear, honest eyes on her friend’s face. “There is not very much to tell, Margy. I met Mr. Morton about a year ago under unusual circumstances. He was a friend of my father’s. My father died since then, and you are the one friend I have now. Mr. Morton was very kind to me at the time, and I believe was willing to assume certain responsibilities on my behalf, for my father’s sake. I promised that I would let him know this autumn how I had fared, and it was only this morning that I sent him the letter which he has not yet received. I shall tell him now all that has happened to me, and he may be able to give me news of old friends abroad. Did you really intend to go out with Mr. Van Dusen?”

“Yes, dear. I was going to tell you about it, and now it will be pleasant for both of us. Your Mr. Morton, Helen, is the real swell!”

HelÈne laughed. “Yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call him. But to me he has been a fine friend—the best I have had—except you, dear.”

“Well, I accept the compliment. But—you know what the old song says: ‘A girl’s best friend is her lover.’ I can see, Helen, where I pass out.”

“Oh, Margy!” she exclaimed, adjusting her veil quickly.

Morton’s return at that moment ended the confidences between the girls. He was now, he told them, entirely at their service. It was then arranged that he should call for HelÈne at seven o’clock at the address given him by Margaret.

HelÈne’s hand lingered an instant in Morton’s at parting, and as he saw her happy face he knew that he was welcome.

Morton drove to his rooms. Events had been crowding on him and he wanted to be alone. On his way he stopped at a florist’s and ordered flowers to be sent to the house in Gramercy Park.

Once in his room he drew a deep chair to the window and after lighting a cigar sat down to his thoughts.

How beautiful she was! More beautiful than even he had pictured her in his dreams. This evening she would tell him everything and explain why she had kept herself away from him. And how pleased she had been to see him! One look at her face had assured him that no other man had come between them. She must have carried out her intention and come to New York to work for her living. That explained Miss Fisher. By George, that woman was a splendid protectress! He had no fault to find with her—not in the slightest. Yes—he must put off his Western journey, now.

John rose and began walking the room, whistling and smoking by turns, smiling happily. His valet in the next room could hardly believe his ears. He came obedient to a summons and was ordered to lay out evening clothes. Mr. Morton would stay in town over Saturday night. What had come over his master?

John had told his mother that he would be detained in town that night and promised to be with her for luncheon the next day. He had laughed to himself as he thought of the guessing match that would follow, between mother and daughter. Ah, if they only knew!

He dressed with great care and took a hansom, thinking it would be more fitting than his own more pretentious carriage, and as he drove down the avenue he could not forbear smiling at his thought—he was just like any ordinary young “chap” calling on his “best girl.”

Margaret and HelÈne, after leaving Morton and finishing their shopping, arrived home, their arms filled with packages, most happily expectant. An evening such as this promised to be to each of them was a rare occasion. HelÈne had been afraid that Margaret would question her further, but to her surprise and relief, she made no reference to Mr. Morton.

“I think, Helen, dear, you must let me help to dress your hair,” she said quietly, “your hat will sit better.”HelÈne sensed a slight coldness in her friend; she came over to Margaret and seating herself on the arm of her chair, cuddled up to her.

“Margy, dear, you are not disapproving, are you? Do you think I ought not to dine with Mr. Morton this evening?”

Margaret held her tight and patted her shoulder affectionately.

“You mustn’t mind me, dearie; I suppose I’m a jealous old thing. It’s perfectly right to go out with Mr. Morton, and I’m glad you are going. I’ve been selfish; you’d get quite rusty if you allowed me to monopolize you. There now, little girl, hurry and get dressed and when you are ready call me.” And Margaret kissed her affectionately.

HelÈne knew that her friend had only her good at heart and thought it wisest to say nothing more. She went to her room, though not to dress. Her mind had been so disturbed by the sudden meeting with Morton and she was so excited over it, that she felt she must regain her composure. She took out her box of treasures containing the dried leaves of flowers and a few letters and sat fingering them thoughtfully. What passed through her mind it would be too curious to inquire. The thoughts of a girl are sacred to herself. All we need to know is that she did not sit long, but stole quietly to the mirror and looked earnestly at her face and then with a sigh of satisfaction, turned away with a happy smile.

Margaret, in her room, could hear her humming a pretty melody, the words of which she could not make out; but, certainly, they were not those of a dirge. When she responded to HelÈne’s call she found her ready and saw spread on the bed the latest acquisition—a gray silk dress. Margaret pretended not to notice it.Indifferently at first she began her task of dressing HelÈne’s hair; but gradually the feel of the silken tresses, almost human in their touch, brought her back to her true self. With a sudden movement she leaned forward and kissing the cheek before her, whispered: “I am so glad you are going to wear that dress—you must look your prettiest to-night.”

HelÈne gave her a glad look and smiled. The two were once again dear friends and each felt the happier for it.

Mrs. Kane came in bearing two boxes of flowers. “From Thornley’s,” she cried, “we sure have some swell admirers, haven’t we?” Her face was beaming. Not for anything would she have foregone the pleasure of bringing in the flowers. She also saw the dress and catching Margaret’s eye she gave her a meaning look. How quickly women seize at the little straws floating on the swift current!

The box addressed “Miss Barton” contained some magnificent roses on long stems. Margaret gave an exclamation of admiration. Then taking out a large bouquet of violets she held them out to HelÈne: “To match your eyes, my dear,” she laughingly remarked, with a low curtsey.

At last both were ready to their mutual satisfaction, though not before Margaret had made a careful survey of HelÈne from all sides to make certain that she had received the finishing touches that would heighten her darling’s charms. Then she had to leave, because Mr. Van Dusen had arrived and was waiting for her in the parlor.

The Mr. Van Dusen who had now become a regular frequenter at the Kane boarding-house was a different gentleman from the dapper young man of the summer. His visits to Margaret had become the talk of the table. HelÈne, however, was the only one who seemed to see nothing of a special purpose in his calls. She always took him as a matter of course. Under Margaret’s influence, no doubt, Van Dusen’s manner had lost its flippancy and air of condescension. He had gained both in reserve and tact, so much so, indeed, that in his intercourse with Margaret, it was he who played the part of the serious friend and she that of the light-hearted tease. To see them as they sat in the parlor one would have said that Van Dusen was undoubtedly a man of experience and good sense.

Margaret had not failed to notice the improvement. She was glad of the change and her lightness of manner may have been part of her strategy to bring out the stronger nature she knew he possessed. She told him of her meeting with HelÈne’s friend and the luncheon at the Waldorf.

“Who was he?” inquired Van Dusen somewhat anxiously.

“Oh, a very handsome man, evidently rich, and looked like a Westerner and with the nicest manners and voice. He is a—Mr. Morton.”

“Oh, how did he come to know Miss Barton?”

“They met abroad some time ago. He didn’t seem sure of her name, because he called her by a word that sounded like Countess. What do you make of it? I didn’t like to ask HelÈne more than she cared to tell me.”

Van Dusen sat looking down thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said after a pause, “I always had an idea that Miss Barton was not any ordinary young woman. She is so different, don’t you know. I’ll wager she’s some aristocrat. Poor girl, she must have gone through great trouble. Did she show any sign of anxiety when he spoke to her?”

“No, on the contrary, she was very surprised and then very pleased. She kept on blushing whenever he spoke to her—and he—well he sat looking at her as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her face. I was afraid he’d forget himself and begin making love to her right in the restaurant. If ever a man was in love with a girl that Mr. Morton is with HelÈne, or I don’t know anything about men.”

“What’s Mr. Morton’s business, do you know?”

“No, I don’t, and I believe Helen doesn’t know either. He’s a gentleman, there’s no doubt about that, and as good-looking as they make ’em. His face seems familiar as if I had seen him before; but I can’t place him.”

“Are you thinking of a portrait of a Mr. Morton you saw in the newspapers, Miss Margaret?”

Margaret stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed:

“That’s it! You struck it! That’s just where I did see that face. It’s a strong face with a slightly drooping mustache and gray eyes so calm that you feel small as you look into them. That’s the very man! Who is he?”

“Well,” replied Van Dusen, “if he’s the Mr. Morton whose portrait was in the ‘Tribune’ the other day, he’s John R. Morton of Cleveland.”

“Who is he?”

“You don’t mean to tell me you’ve never heard of him?”

“No, I never did, and I am sure Helen never reads the papers carefully enough to have seen it. But don’t look so surprised at me—who is he—some criminal or a politician?”

“Oh, Lord,” groaned Van Dusen, “this beats anything I ever heard. Why, John R. Morton is the only son and successor of old Dan Morton; he’s just the biggest man in New York—and some man! You know my governor is no piker when it comes to dollars, but Morton—why all the blue bloods of New York are not in the same class with him. He could buy and sell them all without the wink of an eyelash. I’ve met him at the Metropolitan Club this summer. He’s a biggish fellow, about 33, a couple of inches shorter than I am. Talks like a professor, gentle and quiet. By George! I remember now. There was something in the papers about his being mixed up in some foreign business with revolutions and princesses. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s the man. No wonder Miss Barton turned me down. Why, John Morton is the greatest catch in the country and as fine a fellow as ever stood in shoe leather, so they say.”

Margaret suddenly realized that she had not been wise to open the conversation on a matter which concerned HelÈne alone. Indeed, she had done wrong, she felt, especially as she had not pressed HelÈne herself for information. She was deeply vexed at her indiscretion.

“Excuse me, a moment, Mr. Van Dusen,” she said quickly, “while I get my coat. I shall not be long. Helen will not be down this evening.”

Without waiting she walked rapidly out of the room. The door closed behind her, she became at once thoughtful. No—she would say nothing to Helen of what she had been told. Besides, she did not know how to broach the subject without betraying herself. She put on her coat and opening HelÈne’s door she looked in and called out smilingly: “I’ll sit up for you, dear.” Before HelÈne could reply the door had been closed and Margaret was running down the stairs.

HelÈne heard the front door slam and knew that she would have to face the coming ordeal alone. How she dreaded the announcement of Mr. Morton’s arrival! Mrs. Kane would draw her own conclusion immediately. The new dress, the flowers, the elaborate preparations—well, Mrs. Kane must think what she liked! It could not be helped now. To-morrow would be the twenty-first of September—the last day of summer. She glanced at the royal roses crowding the vase, their heads proudly erect as if in challenge to the world. Then her eyes fell on the sweet purple of the violets on the table—“The last rose of summer,” she murmured; “but the violet is blue—true blue.”

Her watch told her that it was still some minutes before the time. She must not betray any anxiety or show any undue haste. She would wait ... ah—the electric bell was ringing. A deep voice, his voice, reached her above the hum of talk—then quick steps ascending and a knock at her door brought Nora, the maid.

“Miss Barton, Mr. Morton is waiting in the parlor.”