e who
must settle it eventually."

"He won't tell," said Olive. "He's real provokin', isn't he? And now you
won't tell, either, Helen."

"Oh, I don't know--yet. But I think he does."

Albert, as usual, walked home with her.

"How are you going to answer your hero's riddle?" she asked.

"Before I tell you, suppose you tell me what your answer would be."

She reflected. "Well," she said, "it seems to me that, all things being
as they are, he should do this: He should go to the sideshow man--the
minister now--and have a very frank talk with him. He should tell him
that he had decided to say nothing about the old life and to help him
in every way, to be his friend--provided that he keep straight, that is
all. Of course more than that would be meant, the alternative would be
there and understood, but he need not say it. I think that course of
action would be fair to himself and to everybody. That is my answer.
What is yours?"

He laughed quietly. "Just that, of course," he said. "You would see it,
I knew. You always see down to the heart of things, Helen. You have the
gift."

She shook her head. "It didn't really need a gift, this particular
problem, did it?" she said. "It is not--excuse me--it isn't exactly a
new one."

"No, it isn't. It is as old as the hills, but there are always new
twists to it."

"As there are to all our old problems."

"Yes. By the way, your advice about the ending of my third story was
exactly what I needed. The editor wrote me he should never have forgiven
me if it had ended in any other way. It probably WOULD have ended in
another way if it hadn't been for you. Thank you, Helen."

"Oh, you know there was really nothing to thank me for. It was all you,
as usual. Have you planned the next story, the fifth, yet?"

"Not entirely. I have some vague ideas. Do you want to hear them?"

"Of course."

So they discussed those ideas as they walked along the sidewalk of the
street leading down to the parsonage. It was a warm evening, a light
mist, which was not substantial enough to be a fog, hanging low over
everything, wrapping them and the trees and the little front yards and
low houses of the old village in a sort of cozy, velvety, confidential
quiet. The scent of lilacs was heavy in the air.

They both were silent. Just when they had ceased speaking neither could
have told. They walked on arm in arm and suddenly Albert became aware
that this silence was dangerous for him; that in it al