HELEN AND STEPHEN were quietly married one afternoon the following spring. The same day Laurel received a note from Mrs. Morrison inviting her to spend a week-end with her, a fortnight later. The invitation did not come as a surprise to Laurel. Mrs. Morrison had told her last September that she hoped to have Laurel stay with her for a few days in the spring. Laurel had told her mother of the possibility. Stella had been working on Laurel’s wardrobe, in preparation, for weeks before Mrs. Morrison’s note arrived.

Helen was at the station to meet Laurel. She and Mrs. Morrison (she was still Mrs. Morrison to Laurel) were quite alone in the back of the limousine as it threaded its way out of the congestion of Forty-Second Street, and turned north on Fifth Avenue. Laurel sat forward on the edge of the seat beside Helen, cheeks flushed, chin raised, breathing in deep breaths of the intoxicating, Mrs. Morrison-charged air, not saying anything at all.

“Glad to be here?” finally Helen interrupted from her deep corner.

Laurel simply nodded, keeping her starry eyes steadfastly turned away. Her worshipful regard for Mrs. Morrison had not changed in quality in the last four years. The only difference was that she was able to adapt herself a little sooner now than formerly to the dazzling presence of her goddess. Give Laurel an hour and she would find her tongue. Give her several hours and the same emotion which choked, confined—later unloosened, unlocked, threw the gates wide.

“Your father is going to be with us for dinner tonight,” Helen announced briefly before the car had left them at the door.

“Oh, I wondered when I’d see father.”

Helen and Stephen had decided to tell Laurel together. They waited until after dinner. Con and Dane were away at school, and little Rick, who had been cautioned not to mention the great news, had finally been torn away from Laurel’s side (little Rick was devoted to Laurel) and had gone upstairs. Helen and Stephen were alone with Laurel in Helen’s lovely ivory-tinted room, seated, all three, before the fire, on the long Sheraton sofa, with Laurel in the middle.

Helen slipped an arm through Laurel’s and, smiling across at Stephen, said, “Shall I tell Laurel a story now?”

The story that Helen told was the story of her own life. She told it exquisitely. “And then—and then—and then—” step by step, from the first time when she knew that she loved Stephen when only a little older than Laurel, down through all the years, when their paths diverged, met, diverged, again. It was a simple, straightforward statement of facts, with no excuses nor explanations. It sounded to Stephen like some beautiful epic poem. He had to close his eyes frequently to shut out tears. When she reached the end, “And so here we are, Laurel. Stephen and I, together at last.”

Laurel whispered softly, “Married?”

“Yes.”