"Clesta's afraid of you, Helen. 'Why'd ye fetch me 'long?' she whimpers.
'Miss Kitty, why'd ye fetch me 'long?' Huh, I 'member how you used to have
his picture with yours in a white and gold frame!"
Helen scarcely replied to Kitty's raptures. She laid her head back half-
protestingly among her cushions, showing her long, exquisite throat. For
an instant she let her shadowy lashes droop over the everchanging lustre
of her eyes. I couldn't help thinking of a great, glorious bird of heaven
resting with broken wing.
"Poor little Princess!" said Kitty, who hardly comes to Helen's shoulder.
Then we all laughed.
Kitty stayed at the Nicaragua that night, and when I came Thursday
afternoon she stopped me outside the door, to say:--
"I wouldn't let Helen talk too much; she's nervous."
"Can you tell me what is the matter with her?" I asked. "I don't think
she's well."
"Oh, nothing. You know--she's been worrying." Then loyal Kitty spoke
purposely of commonplaces. "General must have danced her off her feet.
Darmstetter's death upset her terribly, too. She never will speak of it.
But she'll be as right as right with me.
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