BRILLIANT lights flooded the gallery adjacent to the sumptuous dining-room from which it was separated by a balustrade of palms. The tables were occupied by men in sombre evening dress, setting off to greater advantage the bright costumes of the ladies who sat with them. The air palpitated with the hum of talk, the peals of light laughter, the clinking of silver and glass and the music of a string orchestra. The perfumes of flowers, the odors of viands and the scent of tobacco smoke rose like the incense from a burnt-offering. The place was typical of one of the more select of the restaurants in the best sections of New York.

At a small table sat HelÈne and Morton facing each other. HelÈne’s face was radiant with a happiness that was reflected from Morton’s eyes as he gazed at her—and her only. Morton had quite forgotten the months of anxiety of the spring and summer, he had cast into oblivion the many questions he had intended to ask. It was enough for him that she was there, facing him, happy and her dear self again. He was wishing he could tell her all he felt and all he could not repress in his face. As a matter of fact, however, he was conversing with her just as any man would do who might be dining at Berry’s with a lady. But he was not conscious of the power habit gave him to hide his emotions.

HelÈne’s modest frock was quite in contrast to the costly and elaborate gowns of the ladies near her. Those of the sisterhood who sent occasional searching glances at her wished they had the courage to wear so simple a dress and to look so beautiful in it. The men eyed her in open admiration, and the waiters evidently were of the same opinion, for they were most deferential and suave to the slender girl in dove gray with the violets in her corsage.

To Morton the fresh beauty of HelÈne grew so overpowering in its insistency that he put his feelings into words before he knew what he was saying: “You are bewitching, to-night, Comtesse,” he breathed, “wonderfully so.”

HelÈne’s face suffused with blushes while she gave him a quick look of surprise; but the next moment she smiled and her smile was like a ray of sunlight through a rift in the clouds.

“The dress is pretty, is it not?” she said. “I am glad now I had the courage to wear it. I did not expect you would take me to so fashionable a place as this seems to be.”

Morton said nothing, but looked volumes. He dared not to say any more; he dreaded a return of shyness and timidity in her, and yet he hoped it would not pass away. He saw the two pretty little hands resting flower-like on the white damask, fingering a fork, and an impulse came over him to take them in his own and tell her there and then, of his love and his heart’s desires. But the primitive man in him held him back; it was so delightful to watch the ebb and flow of shy reserve and unconscious expression in the sweet mobile face. What is it in the human male that prompts him to seek this peculiar pleasure, as of a cat playing with a mouse? Morton would have been highly indignant had any one dared so to characterize his attitude at this moment and he would have been justified, because he was as much the victim as the victimizer—he was simply obeying the compulsion of the moment, enjoying in anticipation the pleasure that he somehow was convinced the future held for him.

The current of his emotions must have leaked through some faulty insulation and induced a corresponding current in HelÈne, for she suddenly became reserved and shy again. She sought refuge in a question.

“Shall I tell you of my adventures after I left Weimar?” she said.

The waiter had deposited two high-stemmed glasses filled with a pale liquid before them.

“I am most anxious to hear everything,” he said; “but first let us drink to good luck.”

He raised his glass and watched her take a dainty sip of the apÉritif and then with a puzzled expression replace the glass on the table.

“Your very good health, Comtesse HelÈne,” he said, “and may we always be good friends,” and emptied his glass.

The orchestra had struck up a new piece. She listened intently for a moment to the first few bars, and then her face lightened and the tears came to her eyes.

“Do you hear, Mr. Morton, do you remember, it’s ‘The Blue Danube.’”

“Yes, I remember well. We heard it at the Bristol in Vienna on the day I left for home,” he whispered back hastily, overcome with the emotion born of the recollection. The next moment, however, he was the courtly host again. It was the present, not the past, that concerned him just now.

“And now, Miss HelÈne, may I hear your story?”

At first hesitatingly, then somewhat more fluently and occasionally with a rush of words, she began and continued the story we know. When she came to the incident with the Frau Professor in Hanover, she scarcely knew how to relate it without conveying a false impression about herself to Morton. But he realized the situation without her assistance.

“I think I can fully appreciate the Frau Professor’s motives,” he said, “the poor woman, worried and harassed by cares, had become soured by her life. Many other women would have been only too glad to avail themselves of your services; but you know, Miss HelÈne, Germany demands diplomas and references more than she does ability. But go on with your tale.”

HelÈne then told of her meeting with Margaret Fisher and told it so enthusiastically that she forgot the excellent food before her. Then came the voyage to America and her adventures in New York. When she had finished, she looked at Morton, searching his face for a sign of interest or reproach; but what she saw there made her cast her eyes down quickly.

“Do you not think I did right, Mr. Morton, in coming to America?” she asked, playing with the ice before her, “or did I act too hastily?” There was a pleading note in her voice. She had not intended to say the words, but her confusion consequent on seeing the expression in Morton’s face threw her back on an instinct which women possess and which they exercise in self-protection, the instinct which appeals to the man and acknowledges his superiority.

Morton did not reply at once, but busied himself slowly pouring out the coffee—the one menial office a man permits himself at a dinner-table—and took the time thus granted him to reflect on what he should say. This was the point which he had been hoping to reach in order to discover her real motives.

“Under the circumstances, Miss HelÈne,” he said, “I think I would have acted as you did. But why the secrecy towards Mr. and Mrs. Tyler, both of whom had become greatly attached to you? And why did you not let me know? Surely we had done nothing to deserve your displeasure! Ah, Miss HelÈne, how I searched for you and scoured the most unlikely places in my efforts to find you! Why did you do it?”

Morton’s face expressed his grievance and he could not repress a slight tremor in his voice.

HelÈne had become white at his words of reproach. She struggled with herself to regain composure and find a fitting answer. About them everything had become suddenly quiet and she felt as if everybody in the room were looking at them. For an instant she gave a frightened glance around to see if her feelings had been justified; but she found the same people there, all absolutely unconscious of her. Immediately she realized that the place was her best protection. Alone with him she would have confessed herself—here, in the crowd, she could tell him only what she judged proper.

“Do you remember, Mr. Morton, that we had agreed to wait until the autumn? To-night is still summer—my dress and the lovely violets bear witness to that. Why should we not enjoy the season while it is still with us? This is my first dinner en fÊte—will you not allow me to taste its pleasure to the full without scolding me? If I have been naughty, be kind to-night, mon chevalier.”

She breathed the last two words and looked at him pleadingly, her lips tremulous, the blue eyes shining. Without saying a word, Morton bent over and kissed the hand on the table.

“My dear child,” his voice was husky with emotion, “I am a brute. Of course, it shall be as you say. And, after all, what does anything matter? You are here, safe and well, and I—I am fortune’s favorite in the privilege you have extended to me this evening. To-night, as you have said, is still summer. I shall match the sunshine in your eyes with the warm friendship in my heart.”

“Thank you, dear friend,” whispered HelÈne with drooping lashes.

“And to-morrow, Miss HelÈne, is another summer’s day. Will you not give me a second opportunity to act as your escort? Let me take you to our home in Tarrytown. My mother will welcome you, and you and Ruth—do you remember my little sister?—you two can roam as you please in the park and woods. It promises to be a beautiful day. Will you come?”

“You are very kind, Mr. Morton. I don’t know what to say. I have thought of your sister with the pretty name, very often. Does she know of my existence?”

How utterly different is the trend of women’s minds from men’s, thought Morton. He had not dared to bare his soul even to Ruth, and yet HelÈne took it for granted that he had spoken of her, and she was, perhaps, speculating at this very moment, if his description of her had been favorable.

“I want you to be my surprise to them, Miss HelÈne, if you will. You have become so thoroughly Americanized that I doubt if my mother will guess at your identity, though she knows I met you in Europe. But Ruth knows nothing, and she will throw her slang at you as she would at any New York girl she knows. So permit me to introduce you merely as a friend without any further explanations.”

“Why, Mr. Morton, they will know immediately I am a foreigner—my first words will tell the tale—they always do. Still, I will accept your invitation gladly.”

“Thank you,” replied Morton simply.“Won’t you tell me about your mother and sister?” HelÈne asked shyly.

Morton laughed; the question was a natural one for one girl to put to another, but to him, a man, it was a puzzling one to answer. However, he entered into the spirit of her curiosity and told her what he thought would interest her. HelÈne had become quite animated now, and Morton enjoyed keenly watching the sweet play of her features, the dainty gestures of her little hands, so slender and soft and dimpled, as he told her of his home life in his quiet unassuming manner. His eyes kept looking at the finger which he was hoping some day to adorn.

“Is it not getting late, Mr. Morton?” HelÈne’s voice broke in on his thoughts with a seeming suddenness that startled him. “Margy will be waiting for me, and I must not keep her up late. If I abuse my present privilege, she’ll not let me go another time. Margy is very strict, you know. Sometimes I think she is jealous. Oh, but we’ve been so happy together, and she’s been so good and so patient. I can never hope to repay her.”

“Yes, Miss Fisher is a fine young woman,” he said. “It was a Providence that sent her to you.”

To himself he thought that if the buxom Margaret were his only rival, he could afford to be gracious. And as for her jealousy—well—he could well understand that.

“Won’t you ask Margaret to come with me, Mr. Morton?”

“I shall willingly do so, if you wish,” he replied with a slight dropping of his voice; “but if you came alone it would fit in better with our plan.”

Morton thought he saw a threatening cloud in the distance. “Go slow, old man, go slow,” he said to himself, “let her do the talking.”To his surprise, however, she dropped the subject.

“When do we start?” she asked.

“There’s a good train at 9:40. Will it be too early if I call for you a little after nine?”

“Oh, no, we breakfast early on Sunday. Shall we go now, Mr. Morton?”

Morton settled the bill and the two left followed by the admiring glances of the late diners in the room. John’s vanity had been suppressed from an early day; his training and habit of mind had made him indifferent to what people might say of him. But as he walked across the spacious salon he could not help noticing the looks sent in HelÈne’s direction, and felt quite proud. Yes, the girl was worth admiring, he said to himself.

The fairy of the afternoon must have been near them all the time, for in spite of the salaaming manager at the exit and the cry of “Cab, sir?” from a waiting driver, Morton was compelled to turn his head away and look up at the big moon floating in the spangled blackness of the gorge’s roof. A voice seemed to whisper to him: “Make hay while the moon shines.” Instantly he had taken HelÈne by the arm and though his heart beat within him he said, in a most matter-of-fact tone: “Shall we walk? It’s a delightful evening.”

Of a certainty the fairy was at work; for the cool air was laden with the scent of the meadows across the river and touched with the dew distilled of youth’s innocent hearts. Margaret was forgotten, the night was bathed in beauty and the bell of a neighboring clock lost one of its strokes in the reverberating sounds from the caÑon’s sky-scrapered sides.

It is good to be young and to be pure in heart; for then we stand well in the esteem of the fairies of our land. Morton trembled at the touch of HelÈne’s arm as he walked by her side, breathing in the cool, scented breeze, and realized, for the first time in his life, that he was, indeed, rich.

When they arrived at the shadowed doorway of the boarding-house, HelÈne gave a quick look upward and saw a light in the window of her sitting-room. She felt guilty and a little afraid. John stood for a moment, hat in hand, and took the dear hand in his own warm, friendly grip. Then bowing deeply he touched it with his lips.

“Good night, Miss HelÈne, and pleasant dreams attend you. I shall call in the morning.”

“Good night, Mr. Morton, and thank you for a most enjoyable evening. I hope these violets will keep. I should like to wear them to-morrow.”

Morton smiled and watched her go up the steps. The door opened. HelÈne turned to the still waiting man standing bareheaded in the moonlight.

“Good night, Mr. Morton,” she cried in her happy voice.

“Good night, Miss Barton,” but his words were drowned in the sound of the closing door.

He looked up at the light in her window for a moment and then, replacing his hat, walked slowly away.

HelÈne tripped up the stairs rapidly and almost rushed into the sitting-room ready with an explanation to Margaret for her late return; but although the light was brightly burning, no Margaret was there. She looked into the bedroom but she was not there either. Where was she? What had detained her? It was so unusual for her not to keep her word. Well, she would wait until she arrived. The soft arm-chair was inviting and HelÈne was not sorry to be alone and dream over the wonderful events of this wonderful day.But where was Margery? Ah, that is another story. Shortly after leaving the boarding-house, she and Van Dusen were comfortably seated at a table in a restaurant very similar to the one in which HelÈne and Morton had spent such intimate hours. Miss Fisher, the buxom damsel, and Van Dusen, the gilded youth of Gotham’s pride, may not have appeared to the ordinary eye as fit subjects for romance, but the ordinary eye is ordinary just because it does not see below the surface of things and people. We, who are not ordinary, see more deeply and know better, which is our reason for being present at this second dinner also.

Van Dusen had evidently made up his mind, though it would seem he lacked somewhat of courage. He had had his cocktail and not a few glasses of wine. Margaret had not failed to notice his nervousness and the frequency with which he refilled his glass, but she said nothing and tried to look unconcerned. She was herself nervous; her usual self-possession and poise seemed to have left her. She had tried on previous occasions to restrain him but to-night he was more than usually reckless.

As the wine began mounting to his head, he became more and more sentimental and more and more talkative, and unbosomed himself to her of his hopes and aspirations. He called her Margy and dearest Margy, and laying his large bony hand with its prominent knuckles over her plump one, he fastened on her ox-like eyes that gleamed amorously. He was pleading his cause with her.

Margaret, full of doubt and distress, with her lips tightly compressed and her bosom rising and falling in her agitation, knew not which way to turn.

“Margy, dear,” he said almost tearfully, “I know you haven’t much faith in my protestations and that you think me fickle; but you are unjust to me—honestly you are. I know I’ve been a fool; but I’ve been cured of my folly. Margy, I want you—only you.

“I love you, Margy. Give me a chance to prove it, won’t you? You always understood me better than any girl I’ve ever met. I know now that it was you I really cared for from the first—really I do. I know it sounds silly to say so, but my running after your little friend was only a momentary fancy—an impulse of admiration, and not love. Instead of being unhappy, I was glad she refused me. Margy, don’t let that silly business prejudice you against me. I don’t amount to much; but I want to be somebody, and—you can help me. There isn’t anybody like you—and you can do what you will with me.”

He paused while his exploring hand groped for hers: “Say something, Margy. Say you will believe me and give me a trial.”

Margaret had kept her eyes all the time fixed on the table; she raised them now and looked full into his now thoroughly serious, pale face. The earnestness she saw there was as evident as it was unexpected. Was she wise in permitting him to talk like this? And yet, after all, he was a man and should know his own mind. She could but admit to herself that he had been very kind, very courteous to her, and what he said was really true—he had been marked in his attentions to her from the first time they had met. He was young—but that was only in manner, not in years. And, she could not help confessing that she liked him better than any other man she had known.

Van Dusen sensed her kindlier feelings for him from the changing expressions in her face.

“Listen, Margy,” he urged, “mother likes you. She says you are the most sensible and wholesome girl she has ever met. Only last night she told me that I needed a girl like you to wake me up and keep me straight. I know she will be glad if you will have me—honest, she will!”

In a moment Margaret—the strong, big, wholesome Margaret—forgot all her doubts, forgot her oft-repeated vows to celibacy, forgot everything except that she was lonely and still young, that Howard was the kindest of men, and that it would be pleasant to take care of him, to make a good husband and a successful man out of this spoiled boy. She looked at his face and noticed that his hair had become disordered in his excitement and felt an irrepressible desire to brush it straight. She hesitated what to say—began to temporize with herself—and ended where all end who hesitate—by being lost.

“Do you really care for me so much?” she murmured. “I never, never thought you did.” Howard made an impulsive movement towards her.

“Please, remember, we are in a public place. Don’t lean over and look at me like that. Please, sit up straight and let us be calm.”

“Then, tell me, Margy, that you care for me. Tell me that you love me.”

Margaret admitted that she was very fond of him—and immediately felt very happy.

He made another movement to get nearer to her. “Please, please, remember where we are!” And to her own surprise she burst into tears.

Quickly drying her eyes, she whispered: “Do you really love me, dear?”

This time Howard disregarded all injunctions. Leaning over the table he almost sent the solitary sugar bowl between them sliding to the carpeted floor, and whispered in her ear: “Shall we go, dearest?” The question sounded ridiculously inane, but it had a very practical import.Proudly and with a new-born sense of protection, he assisted her with her coat and walked with her to the door. To the boy who handed him his hat and cane he gave all the change his large fist could grab. Flushed with victory and anticipatory happiness, he followed the tall, striking figure of the girl into the street.

Once outside, he lost not a moment in drawing her hand through his arm and leading her down the quieter side street. Where they walked or what they said to each other neither of them knew. The evening was balmy and the little park in Madison Square a quiet haven with most accommodating benches in the deep shadows. And as the benches can neither see nor speak nor hear, what transpired there was, therefore, never recorded.

When Margaret reached the house in Gramercy Park, she found it as quiet as a church. The vestibule, that time-honored institution of America, the ever-ready refuge for laughing swains and coy maidens, was inviting and bright. Margaret did not see the fantastic designs on Howard’s face made by the arabesques etched on the glass panels of the door, nor did he see anything but her sweet eyes and arched lips. And here they sealed their plighted troth; here they made their plans for the morrow’s new-coming happiness. John Morton need have no fear about Margaret going with HelÈne. The good fairy had done his day’s work most excellently well.

HelÈne was sitting in comfortable deshabille, waiting for Margaret. She had almost made up her mind to chide the lax duenna for her dereliction of duty. But when she saw Margaret open the door she greeted her as if a midnight home-coming were a common occurrence in their lives.

And Margaret? Margaret carefully locked the door and then walked straight up to HelÈne. She knelt down before her, put her arms about her and kissed her without giving utterance to a single word.

For a few moments the two rested thus in close embrace, and then HelÈne, the inexperienced, innocent child-woman, kissed her dear friend and stroking her cheek and hair, murmured:

“I am glad from my heart, dearest, that it has come. I am sure you will both be very, very happy.”

Who had told her? Ah, who knows?

The workings of a woman’s brain are mysterious, her moods subtle, and the communion between one woman’s mind and another’s ever a miracle. The instant she had spoken HelÈne felt that she had always known that Van Dusen loved Margaret; nay, that he could not help loving her. And yet, a moment before she would have denied vehemently the possibility of her entertaining even a suspicion of such a thought. Scientists may write volumes about the feminine brain; they may dissect and weigh it as much as they please—their experiments will but bear witness to their futility, for their analyses will have been in vain. It is wisest not to analyse but simply to bow down and accept this perfect organism. Man may intellectualize and reason; but woman knows, and she never questions how or why she knows.

Margaret, her head against HelÈne’s breast was crying softly and protesting that she would never leave her darling, never forsake her so long as HelÈne wanted her. HelÈne said nothing, but sat still and allowed the girl to kiss and embrace her. Her sympathetic silence had its beneficent influence, and when Margaret had quieted down, HelÈne said to her:

“Margy, dear, it is the best that could come to you. I have known it all along. You must think now only of your own happiness. And now, good night, Margy, dear, it is very late and we must be up early in the morning. Happy dreams be with you.”

HelÈne lay in her bed thinking, not of her friend’s new-found happiness, but of the morning’s meeting, and the visit to Morton’s home. She was anxious about the impression she would make on his mother and sister and painfully timid of the ordeal. Of Morton himself she had no fear—he had been so kind, so happy to meet her. There was but one problem with regard to him she had still left unsolved—it related to the money in the bank at Weimar. She was at a loss how to broach the subject and how to dispose of it once and for all. She lay awake for a long time turning it over in her mind again and again. She decided finally that she would speak of it at the first opportunity and have done with it. She would not then be his debtor, and would feel free of the burden it had been to her.

Comforted by this decision, she closed her eyes and with a happy sigh slept peacefully the deep and strengthening sleep of a mind at rest.

Margaret sat for a long time going over in her mind all that happened to her on this momentous evening. She was doing battle with herself to subjugate the doubts that kept assailing her as to the step she had taken. For, indeed, she had gone through a wonderful metamorphosis. Yesterday, an ordinary working girl—to-day, the affianced of a Van Dusen! A few hours ago she was a confirmed spinster, and now she was happy in the possession of the truest lover a girl was ever blessed with. Her eyes fell on the finger of her left hand on which shone a gorgeous diamond—his betrothal ring. He had had it ready in his pocket—nay, as he told her, he had had it there for weeks, waiting until he could muster up the courage to speak to her. What a man!She began slowly to undress, speculating the while as to whether or no she should wear the ring in the morning. What would Mrs. Kane and the others say? She extinguished the light, but not before she had taken a last admiring and loving look at the glittering gem, and crept into her bed. Should she remove the ring or wear it? The pillow was soft and soothing. She stretched her limbs luxuriously. Should she wear the ring or—her eyes closed in sleep.

Sleep, dear girl; sleep and dream of the happiness that has at last come to you. Your brave spirit shall soon receive its reward. Love, with which you blessed, will bless you.