her hand and the others
scattered on the floor by her side, heard a knock on the door below,
but, in her absorption, paid no attention to it. In a few moments,
however, Nora came up to say that Mr. Dexter was in the parlor, and
wished to see her.

Here was an unexpected trial. She had sent a short, carefully guarded
answer to his long letter, and he had not written again. It had been
comparatively easy to guard written words. But could she command those
that must be spoken? She bathed her face in cold water, and stood
waiting until she felt that she had called up a calmer expression; she
charged herself to guard every look, every word, even the tones of her
voice. Then she went down.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"I can account for nothing you women do, although I have lived
among you seventy-five years."--WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

As she entered the little parlor, Dexter came forward to meet her. "You
are looking very well," he said, almost reproachfully.

"I am very well," she answered. "And you?"

"Not well at all. What with the constant and harassing work I am doing,
and this horrible affair concerning poor Helen, I confess that I feel
worn and old. It is not often that I acknowledge either. I have been
busy in the city all day, and must return to my post on the midnight
train; but I had two or three hours to spare, and so I have come out to
see you. Before we say anything else, however, tell me about yourself.
How is it with you at present?"

Glad of a respite, she described to him, with more details than she had
hitherto thought necessary, her position, her pupils, and her daily
life. She talked rapidly, giving him no opportunity to speak; she hardly
knew herself as she went along. At last, however, he did break through
the stream of her words. "I am glad you find interest in these matters,"
he said, coldly. "With me it is different; I can think of nothing but
poor Helen."

It was come: now for self-control. All her words failed suddenly; she
could not speak.

"Are you not haunted by it?" he continued. "Do you not constantly see
her lying there asleep, that pale hair unbraided, those small helpless
hands bare of all their jewels--poor defenseless little hands, decked
only with the mockery of that wedding ring?"

He was gazing at the wall, as though it were all pictured there. Anne
made no reply, and after a pause he went on. "Helen was a fascinating
woman; but she was, or could be if she chose, an