en after I had returned to London, I spent
the greater part of all I earned and possessed upon it. About that time
my friendship with your mother began. She was already ill, and spent most
of her life--as you remember--except for those two or three invalid
winters in Italy--in that little drawing-room, I knew so well. I could
always be sure of finding her at home; and gradually--as you
recollect--she became my best friend. She was the only person in England
who knew the true story of my marriage. She always suspected, from the
time she first heard of it, that the notice in the _Times_--"

Helena made a quick movement forward. Her lips parted.

"--was not true?"

Buntingford took her hand again, and they looked at each other, she
trembling involuntarily.

"And the woman last night?" she said, breathlessly--"was she someone who
knew--who could tell you the truth?"

"She was my wife--herself!"

Helena withdrew her hand.

"How strange!--how strange!" She covered her eyes. There was a silence.
After it, Buntingford resumed:

"Has Geoffrey told you the first warning of it--you left this room?"

"No."

He described the incident of the sketch.

"It was a drawing I had made of her only a few weeks before she left me.
I had no idea it was in that portfolio. We had scarcely time to put it
away before Mr. Alcott's note arrived--sending for me at once."

Helena's hands had dropped, while she hung upon his story. And a
wonderful unconscious sweetness had stolen into her expression. Her young
heart was in her eyes.

"Oh, I am so glad--so glad--you had that warning!"

Buntingford was deeply touched.

"You dear child!" he said in a rather choked voice, and, rising, he
walked away from her to the further end of the room. When he returned, he
found a pale and thoughtful Helena.

"Of course, Cousin Philip, this will make a great change--in your
life--and in mine."

He stood silently before her--preferring that she should make her own
suggestions.

"I think--I ought to go away at once. Thanks to you--I have Mrs.
Friend--who is such a dear."

"There is the London house, Helena. You can make any use of it you like."

"No, I think not," she said resolutely. Then with an odd laugh which
recalled an earlier Helena--"I don't expect Lucy Friend would want to
have the charge of me in town; and you too--perhaps--would still be
responsible--and bothered about me--if I were in your house."

Buntingford could not help a smil