In the sunshine of her joy-lit eyes I forgot the
miracle of it, forgot everything except that I had reached New York and
Nelly, and that the world was beautiful when she looked upon it.
We came down from Cathedral Heights; and as we boarded a train on the
elevated, eyes peered around newspapers. An old gentleman wiped his
glasses and readjusted them, his lips forming the words, "most
extraordinary," and again, "most extraordinary!" A thin, transparent-
looking woman followed the direction of his glance and querulously touched
his elbow. Two slender girls looked and whispered.
I thought at first that city folks had no manners, but presently began to
wonder that Helen escaped so easily. She had drawn down a scrap of a veil
that scarcely obscured her glow and colour and, as the train gathered
headway, our neighbours settled in their places almost as unconcernedly as
if no marvel of beauty and youth were present. Indeed, most of them had
never looked up. The two young girls continued to eye Helen with envy; and
I was conscious of an absurd feeling of resentment that they were the only
ones. I wanted to get up and cry out: "Don't you people know that this car
contains a miracle?"
Why, when Helen lifted to her knee a child that tugged at the skirts of
the stout German hausfrau in the next seat, the mother vouchsafed hardly a
glance.
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