ad it not been that
his companion frequently referred to his late wife. "How strange that
Milly did not love this wonderful old house!" she exclaimed. And then,
when they had gone a little further on, she suddenly asked: "I wish
you'd tell me which was Milly's room? Surely she must have been happy
here sometimes!"

But the new master of Wyndfell Hall had never even thought of asking
which had been his wife's room. And, on seeing the troubled, embarrassed
look which crossed his face while he confessed his ignorance, Helen felt
sharply sorry that she had asked the question. To his relief, she spoke
no more of Milly, and of Milly's association with the house which so
charmed and attracted her.

One of the strangest, most disturbing facts about our complex human
nature is how very little we know of what is passing in another's mind.
Helen Brabazon would have been amazed indeed had she seen even only a
very little way into her present companion's secret thoughts. How
surprised she would have been, for instance, to know that the only thing
about herself Varick would have liked altered was her association with
that part of his life to which he never willingly returned, even in his
thoughts. The part of his life, that is, which had been spent by his
dying wife and himself at Redsands. It was with nervous horror that he
unwillingly recalled any incident, however slight, connected with those
tragic weeks. And yet Helen, had she been asked, would have said that he
must often dwell on them in loving retrospect. She honestly believed
that the link between them, even now, was a survival of what had been
their mutual affection for the then dying woman, and the touching
dependence that same woman had shown on their joint love and care.

As they wandered on together, apparently on the most happily intimate
terms of liking and of friendship, about the delightful old house, there
was scarce a thought in Lionel Varick's mind that would not have
surprised, disturbed, and puzzled his companion.

For one thing, he was looking at Helen Brabazon far more critically than
he had looked at any woman for a very long time, telling himself, rather
ruefully the while, that she was not the type of girl that at any time
of his life would have naturally attracted him. But he was well aware
that this was his misfortune, not his fault; and he did like her--he did
respect her.

How strange it was to know that in her well-shaped little hand there lay
s