CHAPTER V.


A HIGH-CLASS CONCERT.

I stayed for supper, over which Kitty's big Angora cat presided; Kitty
herself, her red curls in disorder, whimsical, shrewd, dipping from jest
to earnest, teased Helen and waited on her, wholly affectionate and, I
guessed, half afraid.

The little den was cosy by the light of an open fire--for it seemed to be
one function of the tall, pink-petticoated lamp to make much darkness
visible; and Nelly was almost like the Nelly I had known, with her eager
talk of home folks and familiar scenes.

She asked about my mother's illness and death that had held me so long in
the West, and her great eyes grew dim and soft with tears, and she looked
at me like a Goddess grieving; until, sweet as was her sympathy, I forced
myself to speak of other topics. And then we grew merry again, talking of
college mates and the days when I first knew her, when I was a Sophomore
teaching in Hannibal and she was my best scholar--only twelve years old,
but she spelled down all the big, husky boys.

"I didn't know what I was doing, did I," I said, "when your father used to
say: 'Bright gal, ain't she? I never see the beat of Helen Lizy;' and I
would tell him you ought to go to the State University?"

"Think of it!" cried Helen. "If I hadn't gone to college, I shouldn't have
come to New York, and, oh, if--but how you must have worked, teaching and
doubling college and law school! Why, you were already through two years