"I won't have you blame yourself," he declared vehemently. "I was more at fault than you, for I claimed your attention with my stupid story."
"Don't talk nonsense," she returned gently, but, nevertheless, her face lost much of its misery.
They were silent for a moment. The past hour had broken down the last barrier of reserve between them and had drawn them very close to each other. Of the two, Farr was perhaps the more conscious of the subtle change that had been wrought, and he was filled with unspeakable joy.
"You must go now," Jean told him, "but you will come back to-morrow, won't you?" She was so sure of his answer that she did not wait for him to speak. "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for Gladys—and me," she added very low.
"If I have been the least help to you, Jean, it is more——" he began, when the outer door was pushed open, and Nathalie rushed in like a whirlwind.
"What in the world has happened," she cried excitedly. "Larry says that Gladys is hurt, but he is too frightened to be clear about it."
Jean hastened to give her an account of the accident, shrinking back a little from the light that streamed in from the open doorway, for fear of what her telltale face might reveal to Nathalie's keen eyes. Farr bade them good-by and went away, and then the two girls went directly to the nursery.
CHAPTER X
MISS STUART'S ARRIVAL.
On this selfsame day, after a two hours' trip on the cars, Helen found herself at length at her destination. It was somewhat after three when she stood ringing the front-door bell of a substantial brown-stone house in a quiet side street. The city seemed hot indeed after the dewy freshness of the country, and the sun's rays beat relentlessly upon the stone flagging and cobblestones. The rumblings of carriages and wagons rolling by, the tinkling of the far off car-bells, the constant roar of the great city fell strangely upon the girl's ears so unaccustomed to the ceaseless din. Just then a street vender passed by, his shrill voice crying now and again, "Peaches! peaches! ten cents a quart!" Helen watched him pityingly until her attention was attracted by a hand-organ grinding away, "White wings, they never grow weary." Two poor little urchins sat on a neighboring doorstep pitching pennies, their small pale faces making her heart ache as she wondered what a glimpse of green fields and winding lanes would be to them. A feeling of sadness assailed her, as these sights and sounds, so familiar to city life, awakened within her a realization that outside of her sheltered life lay so many full of sorrow and suffering. Her reverie was cut short by the appearance of the maid, who immediately ushered her into the darkened drawing-room. Between the closed shutters crept a few rays of straggling sunlight which fell upon the furniture in its muslin slips, the bronzes and gas jets in their wrappings of tarlatan.
Helen had hardly found a seat, when someone hastily descended the stairs, and pushing open the door, made a rush across the room and threw her arms about her.