At this juncture the door opened and a young lady entered. Helen
Cresswell was twenty, small and pretty, with a slightly languid air.
Outside herself there was little in which she took very great interest,
and her interest in herself was not absorbing. Yet she had a curiously
sweet way. Her servants liked her and the tenants could count on her
spasmodic attentions in time of sickness and trouble.

"Good-morning," she said, with a soft drawl. She sauntered over to her
father, kissed him, and hung over the back of his chair.

"Did you get that novel for me, Harry?"--expectantly regarding her
brother.

"I forgot it, Sis. But I'll be going to town again soon."

The young lady showed that she was annoyed.

"By the bye, Sis, there's a young lady over at the Negro school whom I
think you'd like."

"Black or white?"

"A young lady, I said. Don't be sarcastic."

"I heard you. I did not know whether you were using our language or
others'."

"She's really unusual, and seems to understand things. She's planning to
call some day--shall you be at home?"