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.”