was sure that she would get on well with Americans, that she would like
them, and they her, though until to-day she had been afraid that her
country-people, in their own land, would seem to her like strangers.
Although she had not made up her mind how long she would stay in New York
before going West, she unpacked a great many things without stopping to
think that perhaps she was giving herself useless trouble. Then, when she
had scattered quantities of dresses, petticoats, hats, and cloaks in both
rooms, she paused bewildered. Everything she had taken out on shipboard
looked wrinkled and rather haggard. She wished, after all, that she had
brought Josephine, though she had not been fond of her, or of the others.
She did not know what to do with the things, and never could she get them
all back again when it should be time to leave the hotel! It was as
Josephine had prophesied. How the Frenchwoman would enjoy saying, "It is
as I warned Madame la Princesse!"

"Perhaps a servant of the hotel would help me," she thought; and a call
through the telephone brought to the door a tall, dark, Irish girl, who
would have been pretty if her eyes and cheeks had not been stained with
crying. At first glance Angela was interested, for she was beginning to
be happy, and could not bear to think that any one who came near her was
miserable. At all times, too, she had quick sympathies, and could read the
secrets of sad or happy eyes in a flash, as she passed them in the street,
though less sensitive persons saw nothing noteworthy; and often she longed
to hurry back to some stranger, as if a voice had cried after her which
she could not let cry in vain. Now, as she talked to the maid about the
unpacking, unspoken sympathy went out from her in a magnetic current which
the Irish girl felt. Her tear-blurred blue eyes fixed themselves on the
young lady in black, and she had a strong, exciting impression that some
blessing hovered near her, which she could take hold of if only she had
courage.