"A perfect lady!" she told herself. "How rarely the phrase fits, and how exactly it applies here. Yet where before have I seen that face?" She was back in the old college town, away back, among the early years. What had suddenly taken her there? She was—this was not!—
"You are surely not," she began, and hesitated.
The fair face broke into rippling smiles.
"Yes," she said, "I am. Do you really remember Mamie Parker just a little bit?"
"I remember her, perfectly, but—"
"But I am changed? Yes, fifteen years make changes in young people. I was not much over eighteen then, and very young for my years. But you have not changed, Mrs. Burnham; I should have known you anywhere. Perhaps that is partly because I have carried you around in my heart all these years. It must be beautiful to be able to do for girls all that you did for me. If I could do it, if I could be to one young girl what you became to me, I should know that I had not lived in vain."
Mrs. Burnham was almost embarrassed. What did the woman mean!
"My dear friend, I do not understand," she said. "There must be some strange mistake. Have you not confused me with some other friend? What could I possibly have done for you in the few, the very few times that we met?"
Her caller laughed a low, sweet laugh, and as she spoke made an inimitable gesture with her hands that emphasized her words.
"You did everything for me," she said. "Everything! You gave me ideals, you refashioned my entire view of life; you were the means God used to breathe into me the spirit of real living. May I claim a little of your time to-day, and tell you just a little bit of the story, for a purpose? I had only this one day here, and I felt compelled to intrude without permission."