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.”