"But come in with me, dear Mrs. Carrington," urged Elsie, the tears
shining in her eyes.

"No, dear, not just yet. Lucy would prefer to see you quite alone at
first, I know." And she glided away in the opposite direction.

A soft, cooing sound came to Elsie's ear, mingled with fondling words, in
a negro voice, as she stood an instant waiting admittance. Lucy, a good
deal paler and thinner than the Lucy of old, lay back in an easy chair,
languidly turning the leaves of a new magazine.

"Open the door, mammy," she said, "I thought I heard a rap." Then at sight
of Elsie, the magazine was hastily tossed aside, and with a cry of joy,
"Oh, you darling! I thought I'd never see you again," she sprang forward,
caught her friend in a close embrace, and wept upon her neck.

Elsie soothed her with caresses and words of endearment, and presently she
calmed down, made her friend take a seat, and sinking back into her own,
wiped away the tears still welling up in her eyes, and with a little
hysterical laugh said, "Please don't look so concerned, or think I'm
unhappy with my dear old Phil, or going to die, or any such nonsense: it's
just my nerves; hateful, torturing things! I wish I'd never found out I
had any."

"You poor dear, I'm so sorry for your lost health," said Elsie, exchanging
her chair for a low ottoman at Lucy's feet, and taking the small thin
hands in hers, stroking and patting them caressingly; "I know nerves won't
be reasoned with, and that tears are often a great relief."