new-sprung happiness, it is only
to measure it against her own misery--to contrast its light of joy, with
the shadow surrounding herself.

But for a short moment, and with transient glance, does she regard them.
Aside from any sentiment of envy, their happy communion calls up a
reminiscence too painful to be dwelt upon. She remembers how she
herself stood talking in that same way, with one she cannot, must not,
know more. To escape recalling the painful souvenir, she turns her eyes
from the love episode, and lowers them to look upon the river.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

SAVED BY A SISTER.

The boat is slowly forging its course up-stream, its wheel in constant
revolution, churning the ochre-coloured water into foam. This, floating
behind, dances and simmers upon the surface, forming a wake-way of white
tinted with red. In Helen Armstrong's eyes it has the appearance of
blood-froth--such being the hue of her thoughts.

Contemplating it for a time, not pleasantly, and then, turning round,
she perceives that she is alone. The lovers have stepped inside a
state-room, or the ladies' cabin, or perhaps gone on to the general
saloon, to take part in the sports of the evening. She sees the lights
shimmering through the latticed windows, and can hear the hum of voices,
all merry. She has no desire to join in that merriment, though many may
be wishing her. Inside she would assuredly become the centre of an
admiring circle; be addressed in courtly speeches, with phrases of soft
flattery. She is aware of this, and keeps away from it. Strange woman!

In her present mood the speeches would but weary, the flattery fash her.
She prefers solitude; likes better the noise made by the ever-turning
wheel. In the tumult of the water there is consonance with that
agitating her own bosom.

Night is now down; darkness has descended upon forest and river, holding
both in its black embrace. Along with it a kindred feeling creeps over
her--a thought darker than night, more sombre than forest shadows. It
is that which oft prompts to annihilation; a memory of the past, which,
making the future unendurable, calls for life to come to an end. The
man to whom she has given her heart--its firstlings, as its fulness--a
heart from which there can be no second gleanings, and she knows it--he
has made light of the offering. A sacrifice grand, as complete; glowing
with all the interests of her life. The life, too, of one rarely
endowed; a wo