GRAY CHICAGO SEETHED, surged, and scurried about her. Helga shivered a little, drawing her light coat closer. She had forgotten how cold March could be under the pale skies of the North. But she liked it, this blustering wind. She would even have welcomed snow, for it would more clearly have marked the contrast between this freedom and the cage which Naxos had been to her. Not but what it was marked plainly enough by the noise, the dash, the crowds.

Helga Crane, who had been born in this dirty, mad, hurrying city, had no home here. She had not even any friends here. It would have to be, she decided, the Young Women’s Christian Association. 1 “Oh dear! The uplift. Poor, poor colored people. Well, no use stewing about it. I’ll get a taxi to take me out, bag and baggage, then I’ll have a hot bath and a really good meal, peep into the shops—mustn’t buy anything—and then for Uncle Peter. Guess I won’t phone. More effective if I surprise him.”

It was late, very late, almost evening, when finally Helga turned her steps northward, in the direction of Uncle Peter’s home. She had put it off as long as she could, for she detested her errand. The fact that that one day had shown her its acute necessity did not decrease her distaste. As she approached the North Side,2 the distaste grew. Arrived at last at the familiar door of the old stone house, her confidence in Uncle Peter’s welcome deserted her. She gave the bell a timid push and then decided to turn away, to go back to her room and phone, or, better yet, to write. But before she could retreat, the door was opened by a strange red-faced maid, dressed primly in black and white. This increased Helga’s mistrust. Where, she wondered, was the ancient Rose, who had, ever since she could remember, served her uncle.

The hostile “Well?” of this new servant forcibly recalled the reason for her presence there. She said firmly: “Mr. Nilssen, please.”

“Mr. Nilssen’s not in,” was the pert retort. “Will you see Mrs. Nilssen?”

Helga was startled. “Mrs. Nilssen! I beg your pardon, did you say Mrs. Nilssen?”

“I did,” answered the maid shortly, beginning to close the door.

“What is it, Ida?” A woman’s soft voice sounded from within.

“Someone for Mr. Nilssen, m’am.” The girl looked embarrassed.

In Helga’s face the blood rose in a deep-red stain. She explained: “Helga Crane, his niece.”

“She says she’s his niece, m’am.”

“Well, have her come in.”

There was no escape. She stood in the large reception hall, and was annoyed to find herself actually trembling. A woman, tall, exquisitely gowned, with shining gray hair piled high, came forward murmuring in a puzzled voice: “His niece, did you say?”