MARIE FINDS A FRIEND
It was on a very cold January afternoon, and Cyril was hurrying up the hill toward Billy's house, when he was startled to see a slender young woman sitting on a curbstone with her head against an electric-light post. He stopped abruptly.
"I beg your pardon, but--why, Miss Hawthorn! It is Miss Hawthorn;isn't it?"
Under his questioning eyes the girl's pale face became so painfully scarlet that in sheer pity the man turned his eyes away. He thought he had seen women blush before, but he decided now that he had not.
"I'm sure--haven't I met you at Miss Neilson's? Are you ill?
Can't I do something for you?" he begged.
"Yes--no--that is, I AM Miss Hawthorn, and I've met you at Miss Neilson's," stammered the girl, faintly. "But there isn't anything, thank you, that you can do--Mr. Henshaw. I stopped to--rest."
The man frowned.
"But, surely--pardon me, Miss Hawthorn, but I can't think it your usual custom to choose an icy curbstone for a resting place, with the thermometer down to zero. You must be ill. Let me take you to Miss Neilson's.""No, no, thank you," cried the girl, struggling to her feet, the vivid red again flooding her face. "I have a lesson--to give.""Nonsense! You're not fit to give a lesson. Besides, they are all folderol, anyway, half of them. A dozen lessons, more or less, won't make any difference; they'll play just as well--and just as atrociously. Come, I insist upon taking you to Miss Neilson's.""No, no, thank you! I really mustn't. I--" She could say no more. A strong, yet very gentle hand had taken firm hold of her arm in such a way as half to support her. A force quite outside of herself was carrying her forward step by step--and Miss Hawthorn was not used to strong, gentle hands, nor yet to a force quite outside of herself. Neither was she accustomed to walk arm in arm with Mr. Cyril Henshaw to Miss Billy's door. When she reached there her cheeks were like red roses for color, and her eyes were like the stars for brightness. Yet a minute later, confronted by Miss Billy's astonished eyes, the stars and the roses fled, and a very white-faced girl fell over in a deathlike faint in Cyril Henshaw's arms.
Marie was put to bed in the little room next to Billy's, and was peremptorily hushed when faint remonstrance was made. The next morning, white-faced and wide-eyed, she resolutely pulled herself half upright, and announced that she was all well and must go home--home to Marie was a six-by-nine hall bed-room in a South End lodging house.
Very gently Billy pushed her back on the pillow and laid a detaining hand on her arm.
"No, dear. Now, please be sensible and listen to reason. You are my guest. You did not know it, perhaps, for I'm afraid the invitation got a little delayed. But you're to stay--oh, lots of weeks.""I--stay here? Why, I can't--indeed, I can't," protested Marie.
"But that isn't a bit of a nice way to accept an invitation,"disapproved Billy. "You should say, 'Thank you, I'd be delighted, I'm sure, and I'll stay.'"In spite of herself the little music teacher laughed, and in the laugh her tense muscles relaxed.
