the
sandshore when Helen came. She sat down on a camp stool a little to
one side and did not speak. After a few moments Reeves pushed away his
paraphernalia impatiently.

"I don't feel in a mood for work," he said. "It is too dreamy a
day--one ought to do nothing to be in keeping. Besides, I'm getting
lazy now that my vacation is nearly over. I must go in a few days."

He avoided looking at her, so he did not see the sudden pallor of her
face.

"So soon?" she said in a voice expressive of no particular feeling.

"Yes. I ought not to have lingered so long. My world will be
forgetting me and that will not do. It has been a very pleasant summer
and I shall be sorry to leave Bay Beach."

"But you will come back next summer?" asked Helen quickly. "You said
you would."

Reeves nerved himself for his very distasteful task.

"Perhaps," he said, with an attempt at carelessness, "but if I do so,
I shall not come alone. Somebody who is very dear to me will come with
me--as my wife. I have never told you about her, Helen, but you and I
are such good friends that I do not mind doing so now. I am engaged to
a very sweet girl, and we expect to be married next spring."

There was a brief silence. Reeves had been vaguely afraid of a scene
and was immensely relieved to find his fear unrealized. Helen sat very
still. He could not see her face. Did she care, after all? Was he
mistaken?

When she spoke her voice was perfectly calm.

"Thank you, it is very kind of you to tell me about her. I suppose she
is very beautiful."

"Yes, here is her picture. You can judge for yourself."

Helen took the portrait from his hand and looked at it steadily. It
was a miniature painted on ivory, and the face looking out from it was
certainly lovely.

"It is no wonder you love her," said the girl in a low tone as she
handed it back. "It must be strange to be so beautiful as that."

Reeves picked up his Tennyson.

"Shall I read you something? What will you have?"

"Read 'Elaine,' please. I want to hear that once more."

Reeves felt a sudden dislike to her choice.

"Wouldn't you prefer something else?" he asked, hurriedly turning over
the leaves. "'Elaine' is rather sad. Shan't I read 'Guinevere'
instead?"

"No," said Helen in the same lifeless tone. "I have no sympathy for
Guinevere. She suffered and her love was unlawful, but she was loved
in return--she did not waste her love on someone who did not want or
care for it. Elaine did,