I don't know how long I gazed.
I was trying to study the girl before me as if she had been merely a fact--a statue, a picture. But here was none of the calm certainty of art; I was in the grip of a power, a living charm as mighty as elusive, no more to be fixed in words than are the splendours of sunset. Yet I saw the vital harmonies of her figure, the grace of every exquisite curve--the firm, strong line of her white throat, the gracious poise of her head, her sweeping lashes.
I looked down at her hands; they were of marvellous shape and tint, but I missed a little sickle-shaped scar from the joint of the left thumb. I knew the story of that scar. I had seen the child Nelly run to her mother when the knife slipped while she was paring a piece of cocoanut for the Saturday pie-baking. That scar was part of Helen; I loved it. I felt a sudden revolt against this goddess who usurped little Nelly's place, and said that she had changed. Why was she looking at me? What did she want?
"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," said a choked voice that I hardly recognised as my own.
Instantly the joy light shone again from her face, bathing me in its sunshine, and the world was fair. She started forward impulsively, holding out her hands.
"Then it's true! Oh, it's true!" she cried. "How can I believe it? I-- Nelly Winship--am I really--"
"Ah--you are Nelly! My Nelly!"
What happened is past telling!
With that jubilant outburst, as naive as a child's, she was my own love again, but dearer a thousand times. Would I have given her up if her hair were blanched by pain or sorrow, her cheeks furrowed, her face grown pale in illness? Need I look upon her coldly because she had become radiant, compellingly lovely? Why, she was enchanting!
And she was Helen. A miracle had been worked, but Helen's self was looking at me out of that goddess-like face as unmistakably as from an unfamiliar dress. It was seeing her in a marvellous new garb of flesh.
"Oh, I'm so happy! I'm the happiest girl on earth; I'm--am I really beautiful?"
The rich, low, brooding, wondering voice was not Helen's, but in every sentence some note or inflection was as familiar as were her tricks of manner, her impulsive gestures. Yes, she was Helen; warm-breathing, flushed with joy of her own loveliness, her perfect womanhood--the girl I adored, the loveliest thing alive!
I seized the hands she gave me; I drew her nearer.