Let's see—to-morrow—day after—day after that. Then she was going. It would be a new world opening suddenly to her, and she shut her eyes to dream the wonderful dreams more uninterruptedly. Ever since she had drummed baby tunes on the tin cake-box, by the hour at a time, she had been growing hungrier to learn to materialize the untamed melodies that ran riot in her mind, and made her fingers tingle with impotent longing. And now it was coming—her chance! Three days away! But as the three days came and went Helen's visions grew more clouded and overcast with secret misgivings. She found herself worrying for fear Mahala would not remember some of the little trivial comforts she herself had taken such delight in remembering for Motherdie. And there were the baby's soft little shoes that needed patching, and Harry's trousers, and the dish-towels were in dire need of replenishment. If she only had a dozen hands these last days, and a dozen times a dozen hours to use them! Her heart misgave her uncomfortably. But they wanted her to go—of course it was just right. Nevertheless, her face grew sober and thoughtful, and something tugged distressingly at her heart-strings.
The day after, and the day after that came. Helen kissed her mother over and over, and hugged the little Arabs fiercely, and went away. The houses and people on the way to the depot danced about dizzily in a mist, and she felt dizzy and topsy-turvy in acute sympathy with them. Her father walked beside her, talking briskly and constantly. Roy walked on ahead with her valise and umbrella, and never once looked around. Helen watched him through the same confusing mist, and his straight, slim little figure was oddly contorted. He had never looked bow-legged before, Helen thought in dismay!
The train puffed in and puffed out again, with a little maid, stricken with sudden, overwhelming forlornness, in the corner of one of its seats. A plump, benign-looking old lady sat just behind her, and watched her with curious sympathy. The baby two seats ahead leaned over toward her insinuatingly, and made her think of the baby and the clothes-pins. Mahala would never remember the clothes-pins—never! And she had forgotten Harry's patch, that she meant to see to last night surely. Mahala'd forget that, too. Helen started involuntarily to her feet.
"WHAT IS IT, DEARIE? YOU FORGOT SOMETHIN'?"
"What is it, dearie? You forgot somethin'?" The plump old lady leaned ahead and touched her arm in friendly solicitude.
"Yes, oh yes! I forgot the patches on Harry's pants." Helen lamented, "and the baby's clothes-pins."
"Oh lor, dearie, never mind—never mind! Patches ain't nothin' much, nor clo'es-pins, neither. I'm comin' over an' set with you. I guess you're sorter humsick, ain't you? I've got some pep'mints in my bag. I'm goin' to see if I can't chirk you up."
Helen moved her umbrella and hand satchel, and made room for her new neighbor. The arrangement had its immediate good effects. Somehow the little old lady reminded her of Mahala, though Mahala was angular and tall and wore steel-bowed spectacles; but she always associated Mahala and peppermints together—perhaps that was the reason. Anyway, if Mahala was as kind and thoughtful as this plump old lady, why need she be anxious and troubled? Helen was young, and travelling was a delightful novelty. She grew cheerful and chatty, and parted with her new friend at the Junction with real sorrow. There was nearly an hour to wait at the Junction. Her train met the down train home there, she remembered, and she might send a postal back. But when she began to write, all the old misgivings and conscience-twitchings surged upon her. She felt selfish and cruel and wicked. What business had she running away from home, where she belonged, taking care of Motherdie and the baby and the Arabs? They all needed her—they all needed her. The words said themselves over with dreary repetition in her heart. Back and forth, up and down the platform, she paced restlessly. Conflicting emotions fought in hand-to-hand struggles. She ought to go home again. She wanted to go the other way. The old tingling in her fingers grew almost irresistible—the longing to touch piano-keys and draw from them the music she knew was in her soul. No, of course she couldn't give it up now. And why need she?
Two whistles sounded in opposite directions. Helen walked faster than ever. Oh, dear, dear, dear, why must the two trains meet right before her eyes? There they were now. She watched the home train come jerkily to a standstill, and her train approach it on another track. She stood suddenly still, and began to talk aloud. "That train goes home," she said, "and that one doesn't. Which one are you going on, Helen Scott? Quick! Are you going home like a decent girl, or are you going to Uncle 'Gene's to practise scales like a heathen and a sinner?" The passengers were almost all aboard. "Well, you can do as you please, Helen Scott. I'm going home to patch Harry's trousers and rub my blessed mother with liniment!"