nd sees stars beckoning, so she, from the turmoil
and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the diviner wheels.

And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm for the child's
sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but murmuring tenderly, "No one ever told
the lad he'll have a child"--they also reminded her that horror is not
the end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not know, but there
seemed great chance that a child would be born into the world, to take
the great chances of beauty and adventure that the world offers. She
moved through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, crimson-eyed and
white. There was nothing else to be done; the time for telegrams and
anger was over and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard should be
folded on his breast and be filled with flowers. Here was the father;
leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the
stars, and whose hands hold the sunset and the dawn.

And even the influx of officials, even the return of the doctor, vulgar
and acute, could not shake her belief in the eternity of beauty. Science
explained people, but could not understand them. After long centuries
among the bones and muscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the
nerves, but this would never give understanding. One could open the
heart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its secrets to
them, for they wanted everything down in black and white, and black and
white was exactly what they were left with.

They questioned her closely about Charles. She never suspected why.
Death had come, and the doctor agreed that it was due to heart disease.
They asked to see her father's sword. She explained that Charles's anger
was natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions about Leonard followed,
all of which she answered unfalteringly. Then back to Charles again. "No
doubt Mr. Wilcox may have induced death," she said; "but if it wasn't
one thing it would have been another as you know." At last they thanked
her and took the sword and the body down to Hilton. She began to pick up
the books from the floor.

Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for her, since she
had to wait for the inquest. Though, as if things were not hard enough,
Madge and her husband had raised trouble; they did not see why they
should receive the offscourings of Howards End. And, of course, they
were right. The whole world was going to be right, and amply avenge any
brave talk against the co