On December 22nd, I came home early, just after lunch, in fact. Helen
met me, at the door, with such a demeanor of suppressed high spirits,
happy secrecy and tingling anticipation that for one moment I was
certain Amy had been found and was then in the house.
“I’ve something wonderful to show you,” Helen declared, and led me to
the library.
There on the table was a picture-puzzle fitted together.
She stood and pointed to it with the air of exhibiting a marvel.
I looked at it but could not conjecture the cause of her excitement.
The pieces seemed too large, too clumsy and too uniform in outline. It
looked a crude and clumsy puzzle, beneath her notice.
“Why did you buy it?” I asked.
“I met a peddler on the street,” she answered, “and he was so
wretched-looking, I was sorry for him. He was young and thin and looked
haggard and consumptive. I looked at him and I suppose I showed my
feelings. He said:
“Lady, buy a puzzle. It will help you to your heart’s desire.”
“His words were so odd I bought it, and now just look at what it is.”