had said it, if he did say it--what then? After all, was
there any real reason why he should not say it? It was true that he had
loved, or fancied that he loved, Madeline, that he had been betrothed to
her--but again, what of it? Broken engagements were common enough, and
there was nothing disgraceful in this one. Why not go to Helen and tell
her that his fancied love for Madeline had been the damnable mistake he
had confessed making. Why not tell her that since the moment when he saw
her standing in the doorway of the parsonage on the morning following
his return from New York he had known that she was the only woman in the
world for him, that it was her image he had seen in his dreams, in the
delirium of fever, that it was she, and not that other, who--

But there, all this was foolishness, and he knew it. He did not dare say
it. Not for one instant had she, by speech or look or action, given him
the slightest encouragement to think her feeling for him was anything
but friendship. And that friendship was far too precious to risk. He
must not risk it. He must keep still, he must hide his thoughts, she
must never guess. Some day, perhaps, after a year or two, after his
position in his profession was more assured, then he might speak. But
even then there would be that risk. And the idea of waiting was not
pleasant. What had Rachel told him concerning the hosts of doctors and
officers and generals who had been "shining up" to her. Some risk there,
also.

Well, never mind. He would try to keep on as he had been going for the
present. He would try not to see her as frequently. If the strain became
unbearable he might go away somewhere--for a time.

He did not go away, but he made it a point not to see her as frequently.
However, they met often even as it was. And he was conscious always that
the ice beneath his feet was very, very thin.

One wonderful August evening he was in his room upstairs. He was not
writing. He had come up there early because he wished to think,
to consider. A proposition had been made to him that afternoon, a
surprising proposition--to him it had come as a complete surprise--and
before mentioning it even to his grandparents he wished to think it over
very carefully.

About ten o'clock his grandfather called to him from the foot of the
stairs and asked him to come down.

"Mr. Kendall's on the phone," said Captain Zelotes. "He's worried about
Helen. She's up to West Harniss sittin' up along of L