"Helen, he knows Herbert, my Herbert," announced Mrs. Raymond
rapturously; and as she seemed to think no further introduction was
necessary, the young man rose to his feet and added with a smile:--

"My name is Carroll--Jack Carroll; Miss Raymond, I suppose. Your
brother--er--suggested that I call, as I was in the city."

"Of course you'd call," chirruped Mrs. Raymond. "As if we were n't
always glad to see any friend of my boy's. Helen, why don't you say
something? Why don't you welcome Mr. Carroll?"

"I have n't had much chance yet, mother," smiled the girl, in some
embarrassment. "Perhaps I--I have n't caught my breath."

"Not that Mr. Carroll ought to mind, of course," resumed Mrs. Raymond
plaintively. "And he won't when he knows you, and sees how moderate you
are. You know Herbert is so quick," she added, turning to Herbert's
friend.

"Is he?" murmured the man; and at the odd something in his voice Helen
looked up quickly to find the stranger's eyes full upon her. "You see,
I'm not sure, after all, that I do know Herbert," he continued lightly,
still with that odd something in his voice. "Herbert's mother has been
telling me lots of things--about Herbert."

"Yes; we've been having such a nice visit together," sighed Mrs. Raymond.
"You see, _he_ understands, Helen,--Mr. Carroll does."

Again Helen glanced up and met the stranger's eyes. She caught her
breath sharply and looked away.

"Of course he understands," she cried, in a voice that was not quite
steady. "If he knew you better, mother dear, he would know that there
could n't be any nicer subject than Herbert to talk about--Herbert and
the fine things he has done!" There was no bitterness, no sarcasm, in
tone or manner. There was only a frightened little pleading, a
warding-off, as of some unknown, threatening danger. "Of course, Mr.
Carroll understands," she finished; and this time she turned and looked
straight into the stranger's eyes unswervingly.

"I understand," he nodded gravely.

And yet--it was not of Herbert that he talked during the next ten
minutes. It was of Mrs. Raymond and her daughter, of their life at home
and at the store. It was a gay ten minutes, for the man laughed at the
whimsical playfulness with which Miss Raymond set off the pitiful little
tale of the daily struggle for existence. If he detected the nervousness
in the telling, he did not show it. He did frown once; but that was when
Herbert's mother sighed ap