But this bit of paper, blotted with tears and stained with
wine and ashes, tells me that there was no mistake.
She had seemed in high spirits that Sunday at the Bakers', though she was
tired when we returned to the studio. Mr. Winship and I made no stop.
Pros. and Cadge were enjoying their brief honeymoon trip and so Kitty and
Helen were left together.
Monday morning I went first to the rooms I had taken; Kitty was to be
there later, arranging our little furniture. She was to live with us for a
time and care for Nelly. But when I reached the office, there lay on my
desk a telegram.
"Helen is ill; come," it read.
Cadge met me at the studio door, white-faced, strangely, silently gentle.
From a tumbled heap among the cushions of the tepee came a voice like
Kitty's, moaning. Cadge tried to speak, but could only point to the little
bedroom.
There, in the straight white dress she wore at the wedding, Helen lay, as
if sleeping, upon a couch. Floods of shining hair fell about her
shoulders. In the white dignity of death her face was marvellous. All
trace of stress and strain had left it, replaced by an enigmatic calm.
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