The queen of Whim!  By nature; which means that she had a highly developed imagination. By the life she had led, having never, save for the six short months of her husband’s adoring rule, been under the control, or even advice, of any man. For whim can be thoroughly developed only in feminine households:  it is essentially feminine. And a maiden aunt, who lived alone, had brought up Helen. A man, however mild, demands in a home at least a pretense of fixed hours and regularity; only a household of women is capable of no regularity at all, of changing the serious dinner hour capriciously, and even giving up dinner altogether. Only a household of women has sudden inspirations as to journeys and departures within the hour; brings forth sudden ideas as to changes of route while actually on the way, and a going southward instead of westward, with a total indifference to supper. Helen’s present whim was Anne.

“I want you to spend part of the holidays with me,” she said, a few days before

Christmas. “Come on Monday, and stay over New-Year’s Day.”

“Oh, I can not,” said Anne, startled.

“Why not? Tante will consent if I ask her; she always does. Do you love this crowded house so much that you can not leave it?”

“It is not that. But—”

“But you are shy.  But Miss Vanhorn might not like it.  You do not know Aunt Margaretta. You have no silk gown. Now let me talk. I will write to Miss Vanhorn. Aunt Margaretta is as gentle as a dove. I am bold enough for two. And the silk dress shall come from me.”

“I could not take that, Mrs. Lorrington.”

“Because you are proud?”

“No; but because I would rather not. It would be too great an obligation.”

“You repay me by your voice a thousandfold, Anne. I have never had the right voice for mine until now; and therefore the obligation is on my side.  I do not speak of the pleasure your visit will give me, because I hope to make that mutual. But say no more. I intend to have my way.”

And she had her way. “I have always detested Miss Vanhorn, with her caraway seeds, and her malice,” she explained to Tante. “Much as I like Anne for herself alone, it will be delicious also to annoy the old dragon by bringing into notice this unknown niece whom she is hiding here so carefully. Now confess, Tante, that it will be delicious.”

Tante shook her head reprovingly. But she herself was in her heart by no means fond of Miss Vanhorn; she had had more than one battle royal with that venerable Knickerbocker, which had tested even her celebrated suavity.

Helen’s note was as follows:

“DEAR    MISS   VANHORN, —I very much wish to persuade your charming niece, Miss Douglas, to spend a portion of the holidays with me. Her voice is marvellously sweet, and Aunt Margaretta is most anxious to hear it; while I am desirous to have her in my own home, even if but for a few days, in order that I may learn more of her truly admirable qualities, which she inherits, no doubt, from your family.

“I trust you will add your consent to Tante’s, already willingly bestowed, and make me thereby still more your obliged friend,

“HELEN ROOSBROECK LORRINGTON.”

The obliged friend had the following answer:

“Miss Vanhorn presents her compliments to Mrs. Lorrington, with thanks for her note, which, however, was an unnecessary attention, Miss Vanhorn claiming no authority over the movements of Anne Douglas (whose relationship to her is remote), beyond a due respect for the rules of the institution where she has been placed. Miss Vanhorn is gratified to learn that Miss Douglas’s voice is already of practical use to her, and has the honor of remaining Mrs. Lorrington’s obliged and humble servant.

“MADISON SQUARE, Tuesday.”

Tears sprang to Anne’s eyes when Helen showed her this note.

“Why do you care? She was always a dragon; forget her. Now, Anne, remember that it is all understood, and the carriage will come for you on Monday.” Then, seeing the face before her still irresolute, she added: “If you are to have pupils, some of them may be like me. You ought, therefore, to learn how to manage me, you know.”

“You are right,” said Anne, seriously. “It is strange how little confidence I feel.”

Helen, looking at her as she stood there in her island gown, coarse shoes, and old- fashioned collar, did not think it strange at all, but wondered, as she had wondered a hundred times before, why it was that this girl did not think of herself and her own appearance. “And you must let me have my way, too, about something for you to wear,” she added.

“It shall be as you wish, Helen. It cannot be otherwise, I suppose, if I go to you. But—I hope the time will come when I can do something for you.”