W

HEN Dolores rapped softly at the door an hour later, she was bidden to enter by a low but calm voice; and she found Helena busy in unpacking her trunks, and arranging her wardrobe in closets, drawers and boxes.

"You look tired, Miss Maxon," she said kindly—"or rather, Miss Lena, for we must not be formal if we are to be room-mates, must we? so let us begin with Lena and Dolores from the first."

"Dolores," repeated Helena, softly; "Dolores—it is a lovely name, but I never heard it before."

"No, it is not a common name. It means sorrowful, I believe; my mother named me well. And now, may I not assist you in your unpacking? Let me hang up your dresses—the hooks are so high, and I am taller than you."

"Oh, thank you, you are very kind, and I am tired. It always makes me tired and ill to cry, and I look so like a fright, too. I wish I might be improved by tears, like the heroines in novels we read about; but I am not so fortunate as they."

"Have you read many novels?" asked Dolores, as she hung up a neat blue walking suit, secretly wondering if that color could be becoming to her dusky companion.

"Oh, no, not many. Mamma thinks I am too young to read the best novels understandingly, and she does not like to have me read anything for just the story of it. I have read all of Mrs. Whitney's books; they are the sweetest stories in the world for girls to read, mamma says, and I think so, too. They always make me feel braver and better, and more contented. I have read two or three books that made me discontented; the heroines were so wonderfully gifted and so gloriously beautiful that I fairly hated my poor self for days after reading about them."

Dolores smiled.

"That is very odd," she said, "I do not remember to ever have been affected in that way by a book."

Helena cast an admiring glance upon her companion.

"Well, I should not suppose you would be?" she responded, "because you are more beautiful than any heroine I ever read about, and that makes all the difference in the world, you know."

Dolores let a whole arm full of mantles and dresses fall in a heap upon the floor, as she turned and stared at the speaker.

"Are you making sport of me?" she asked, bluntly.

"I, making sport of you? Why, I would not be so rude," cried Helena, the tears starting to her eyes again. "Perhaps I ought not to have spoken so plainly—may be you think 'praise to the face is an open disgrace;' but I do not believe that. If I like any thing or any body, I can not help saying so; and I thought you must know how very beautiful you are, and I spoke of it just as I would speak of the beauty of a flower or a picture. I am sorry if I have annoyed you."

Dolores picked up the scattered garments and began to arrange them in order.

"Well, you are the oddest girl I ever met," she said. "But you have not annoyed me; I am sure it is very sweet of you to say such pretty things to me; only I never knew any girl who talked like that before: girls are usually so hateful, you know."

"Are they?" and there was real grief in Helena's voice. "Oh, I don't like to believe that is true."

"But have not you found them so?"

"No; but you see I have known very few girls. I have lived very quietly at home, and I never even staid all night with a girl in my life—mamma never liked to have me. No doubt I have a great deal to learn, but I always longed for a sister, and I thought girls were very nice indeed."

"I suppose some of them are," Dolores admitted, "but I never cared much for their society myself; as a rule they only think and talk about beaus, and marriage, and silly gossip which does not interest me. But I'm sure you are quite different, and we shall get along nicely together. For pity's sake, what is that!"

This last exclamatory query was uttered just as Helena unfolded numerous wrappings from a large inanimate object, which very much resembled a sleeping infant several months old. Helena's olive cheek glowed with a sudden flush like the rosy side of a ripe peach. She bent low over the object, which was now quite free from its protecting wraps, as she answered, "I suppose you will think me terribly silly; mamma said she was afraid the girls would make sport of me, if I brought it with me, but when I came away I found I just could not leave my dear dolly at home. Papa gave it to me three years ago Christmas, and I think it is the loveliest creature I ever saw in the shape of a doll. I have been so fond of her, and I have always had her in my room at night; and it broke my heart to think of leaving her behind me. So at last mamma said I might bring her. I shall keep her in the bottom drawer of the dresser, and no one but you need know she is here. I don't want the whole school laughing at me; but I know I shall be a great deal happier because she is with me. Did you feel badly when you had to give up your dolls?"

"I never played with a doll in all my life," Dolores answered, "I always knew they were only dolls."

"Yes, of course real babies are nicer, but they cry so—and one has to be so careful—"

"Real babies!" echoed Dolores, in undisguised contempt, "I am sure I never want to play with those miserable little beings. I never know what to do with them."

"Don't you love babies? the sweet innocent little creatures," cried Helena, clasping her arms over an imaginary infant, and cuddling it to her breast with true mother-tenderness. "Oh, I think they are the loveliest, dearest little things in the world. How can you dislike them?"

"I don't really dislike them," Dolores replied; "I only pity them. Nobody ever asks them whether or not they wish to come into this world of trouble—nobody ever wants them, and every body tires of their plaintive protest against life. Yes, indeed, I pity the poor things."

"Oh, but I am sure some babies are wanted," Helena interposed. "A little brother came to me three years ago, and we were all so glad and happy, as if an angel had been sent to us. And it was an angel," she added, in a lower tone, "for it was called back to heaven in a few months, and we were left so very, very lonely. But we were glad it came even for that brief time. It made us all better, I know. Have you any brothers or sisters, Dolores?"

"No," Dolores answered, "my mother died when I was six months old."

"Oh," said Helena, very softly, "then you are an orphan? I think that is the saddest thing in the world—to have no father and mother on earth."

"My father is living—but he has another wife, and I never see him," Dolores explained, "and I feel that I am an orphan. I live with my mother's brother—my Uncle Laurence, when I am at home. But I think we ought to retire early to-night, Miss Lena—you look very tired; this has been a hard day for you."

As they disrobed together, Helena's admiration for her companion's beauty broke forth again.

"You have the loveliest hair I ever saw," she said. "How I would love to see a picture of you with it flowing about your shoulders like that."

As malice creates malice, so generosity awakens generosity. Dolores, who was usually quite too indifferent to individuals to particularly notice, much less mention their pleasing traits, now smilingly replied to Helena's eulogy:

"And I would like a picture of your beautiful neck and shoulders; you have the form of a young goddess, my dear."

"Have I?" cried Helena with childish delight, "why, I am sure no one ever said so before—only Papa told me there was a classic slope to my shoulders—I always remembered that compliment—as I shall yours. I just worship beauty, and I am so grateful to heaven for the least little spark of prettiness it has given me, and I try to make the most of myself in every way. I think the Creator meant all women to be lovely; Eve was beautiful, I am sure; and it is only by disobeying the laws of health, and not thinking the right thoughts that her descendants have grown deformed and unattractive. That is what Mamma thinks, and I believe it is true too."

"Are you quite ready to retire," asked Dolores, as she saw Helena let down her brown hair over her snowy night-dress. "If so, I will put out the light."

"Oh dear, no," laughed Helena, "you have no idea how long a time I require at my toilet night and morning. You know I told you I tried to make the most of myself every way. Now nature did not give me much beauty to begin with, but Mamma says I can greatly improve on what was given me. My hair is not very fine or soft, so I give it a hundred strokes of the brush every night, and fifty every morning. Then I take ever so much pains with my teeth and nails—for they are very obvious features, you know, and my nails are inclined to be ugly—not naturally long and shapely like yours. And I am so fond of bathing, that Mamma says she ought to keep me in an aquarium with the gold fish."

"But you will find it very difficult to get time for so many elaborate ceremonies here at school," said Dolores.

"Well, then I shall fall behind in my classes, I fear," answered Helena as she stroked her hair till it glistened like the coat of a finely-groomed horse. "I look on my body as the temple of my soul, and I feel as if I was showing respect to God by taking every delicate and beautiful care of it that is possible. I do not care for fine clothes so much as some girls do, but I love to beautify and purify myself—the body that God made—and dedicate it anew to his service each day and night. What other girls spend in sweetmeats and candies, I use to buy delicate perfumes, and soaps, and dainty brushes and appliances for my toilet and bath. In fact, I suppose I am a born old maid. There now—you can put out the light, and hereafter I will take that task upon myself and not keep you waiting."

And then she dropped on her knees by the snowy couch in the moonlight, and offered up her simple silent prayer of petition and gratitude.

"A nice sweet girl," thought Dolores as she lay and watched the kneeling figure. "I think I shall quite enjoy her society."

And she did not dream that in the mercifully veiled future circumstances should transpire, which would cause her to feel for that same girlish figure kneeling at her bed-side, all the bitter hatred, all the passionate fury, all the jealous vengeance of which the human heart is capable when in the grasp of an immortal sorrow and a great despair.