It was Helen--teary, and distrait. Helen with tie askew and hair tousled. Helen with eyes too bright and cheeks too red, and breath too short for normal.
"Oh, Helen, do come in! What is the matter?"
Jane brushed the papers from the wicker chair, and Helen sank in it. The red eyes were pressed with a small wet ball, and the unsympathetic curls from her forehead dug into teary lashes with pure teasing persistency.
"Child, why do you cry?" asked Jane with a precision of manner suitable for an occasion such as this. Helen regarded abrupt speech as a mark of indifference, and Jane surmised this was no time for indifference.
"Oh, my dear friend!" sobbed the crestfallen Helen. "It--is too much, I cannot to--stand it!"
"What, Helen? What has happened? Tell your own Janey!" and with a caress, unmistakable in its sincerity, Jane dropped on a stool at the feet of the sobbing Polish girl.
"I thought not to tell you--it is too much that I should be like a baby," went on Helen, endeavoring with poor result, to check her choking sobs, "but to-night, I feel I must go!"
"Why, child! Go where?"
"That is what is too hard. I cannot know where, but to go--Oh, I must, Jane darling! I can no longer stand it all!"
"Now, Helen, tell me about it. You know it cannot be so serious that we shall not find a remedy," Jane coaxed.