"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," said a choked voice that
I hardly recognised as my own.

Instantly the joy light shone again from her face, bathing me in its
sunshine, and the world was fair. She started forward impulsively, holding
out her hands.

"Then it's true! Oh, it's true!" she cried. "How can I believe it? I--
Nelly Winship--am I really--"

"Ah--you are Nelly! My Nelly!"

What happened is past telling!

With that jubilant outburst, as naive as a child's, she was my own love
again, but dearer a thousand times. Would I have given her up if her hair
were blanched by pain or sorrow, her cheeks furrowed, her face grown pale
in illness? Need I look upon her coldly because she had become radiant,
compellingly lovely? Why, she was enchanting!

And she was Helen. A miracle had been worked, but Helen's self was looking
at me out of that goddess-like face as unmistakably as from an unfamiliar
dress. It was seeing her in a marvellous new garb of flesh.

"Oh, I'm so happy! I'm the happiest girl on earth; I'm--am I really
beautiful?"

The rich, low, brooding, wondering voice was not Helen's, but in every
sentence some note or inflection was as familiar as were her tricks of