isfaction at so much young
happiness being next door to her, hugged herself because of her own
blessings.

"I don't want to brag," she thought, "but certainly I am the luckiest
person!" To count up her various pieces of luck (starting with the
experience of being jilted): She had a nice landlord who looked like
Zeus, with his flashing black eyes and snow-white hair and beard. And
she had so many friends! And she believed she could manage to make her
black alpaca last another winter. "It is spotted," she thought, "but
what real difference does a spot make?" (Miss Lydia was one of those
rare people who have a sense of the relative values of life.) "It's a
warm skirt," said Miss Lydia, weighing the importance of that spot with
the expense of a new dress; "and, anyway, whenever I look at it, it just
makes me think of the time I spilled the cream down the front at Harriet
Hutchinson's. What a good time I had at Harriet's!" After that she
reflected upon the excellent quality of her blue silk. "I shall probably
wear it only once or twice a year; it ought to last me my lifetime,"
said Miss Lydia. . . . It was just as she reached this blessing that,
somewhere in the shadows, a quivering voice called, "Miss Sampson?" and
out of the darkness of the Smith driveway came a girlish figure. The
iron gates clanged behind her, and she came up the little brick path to
Miss Lydia's house with a sort of rush, a sort of fury; her voice was
demanding and frightened and angry all together. "Miss Lydia!"

Miss Lydia, startled from her blessings, screwed up her eyes, then,
recognizing her visitor, exclaimed: "Why, my dear! What is the matter?"
And again, in real alarm, "What _is_ it?" For Mary Smith, dropping down
on the step beside her, was trembling. "My dear!" Miss Lydia said, in
consternation.

"Miss Sampson, something--something has happened. A--a--an accident.
I've come to you. I didn't know where else to go." She spoke with a sort
of sobbing breathlessness.

"You did just right," said Miss Lydia, "but what--"

"You've got to help me! There's nobody else."

"Of course I will! But tell me--"

"If you don't help me, I'll die," Mary Smith said. She struck her soft
clenched fist on her knee, then covered her face with her hands. "But
you must promise me you won't tell? Ever--ever!"

"Of course I won't."

"And you'll help me? Oh, say you'll help me!"

"Have you and he quarreled?" said Miss Lydia, quickly. Her own
experience flashed