y and truly than Helen
Thorndyke in the first dark months following her husband's death.
Remorse had added poignancy to her natural grief and horror of his
dreadful end, and she had suffered how greatly, only Helen herself will
ever know. But that is nearly two years ago, and Helen is but
four-and-twenty, and

"Time, that blunts the edge of things,
Dries our tears and spoils our bliss."

Time had brought its balm to her, and she could eat, drink and be merry
once more. A great peace has followed that tragic time, friends surround
her, and foremost and warmest among them, Richard Gilbert.

In the little cottage, presented her by Norine, where Helen and her
little ones dwelt, the lawyer was a very frequent visitor. When Mrs.
Thorndyke's doors closed to all others they opened to him. And there
Mrs. Darcy, a daily comer, met him at least two or three times each
week. It had been her wish, after Laurence Thorndyke's death, that the
stricken young widow should still make her home in her house, but this
Helen had refused. She wanted to be alone, to hide herself somewhere
away from all eyes, and Norine had understood the feeling, and gifted
her with the pretty, vine-covered cottage outside the city's noise and
turmoil. There, with her babies, Helen dragged through those first
miserable months, and lived down her first bitter agony of remorseful
despair.

When the summer, with its fierce, beating sunshine came they left the
city's scorched streets and sun-bleached parks, for the cool breezes and
country sweetness of Kent Hill. Thither Richard Gilbert, by invitation,
followed. The close intimacy between him and Helen never waned. The
children clung to him, and crowed with delight at his coming. He seemed
never to weary of their small society. Was it altogether for all their
own, or a little for their mother's sake, Norine wondered, feeling her
first sharp, jealous pangs. He spent a month with them, then went back.
And when September, cool and delicious, came refreshingly to New York,
the two handsome young widows, with the two little children, followed.
In society that winter, Mrs. Liston-Darcy, the millionaire's heiress,
was admired enormously. Not alone, for her bank stock; for her own
bonnie black eyes and rare piquant loveliness. Many men bowed down
before her, younger, handsomer, more famous men than Richard Gilbert,
but her answer was to one and all the same. None of these men touched
her heart, to none of them