om Helen toward
Sir Allan, "is in perfect accord with everything that is sweet and
stately and picturesque in her surroundings. I see her now as she met me
in the garden, and stretched out her hands to greet me. It is the face,
the form of a martyr and an angel. She is tall, and her garb is one of
stately simplicity. Her hair is white as snow, and the lines of her face
are wasted with sorrow and physical decay. Yet there is sweetness and
softness and light in her worn features--aye, and more almost than a
human being's share of that exquisite spirituality which is the reward
only of those who have triumphed over pain and suffering and sin. Guido
would have given the world for such a face. Little does an artist think
at what cost such an expression is won. Through the fires of shame and
bitter wrong, of humiliation and heart-shattering agony, the human cross
has fallen away, and the gold of her nature shines pure and refined. God
grant to those who have wronged her, those at whose door her sin lies,
as happy a deathbed as hers will be. Sir Allan, I am boring you, I fear.
We will change the subject."

"Not at all. I have been--very interested," Sir Allan answered in a low
tone, pouring himself out a glass of wine, and raising it to lips as
white as the camellia in his buttonhole.

"We are all interested," Helen said softly. "Did you stay with her?"

"For three days," he answered. "Then, because I could not bring myself
to tell her the news which I had gone all that way to impart, I came
away."

There was a moment's silence. A servant who had just entered the room
whispered in Mr. Thurwell's ear.

"Two gentlemen wish to speak to you, Mr. Maddison," he said, repeating
the message. "Where have you shown them, Roberts?--in the library?"

"I wished to do so, sir," the man replied, "but----"

He glanced over his shoulder. Every one looked toward the door. Just
outside were two dark figures. To three people at the table the truth
came like a flash.

Sir Allan sat quite still, with his eyes fixed upon Bernard Maddison,
who had risen to his feet, pale as death, with rigidly compressed lips,
and nervously grasping his napkin. Helen, too, had risen, with a look of
horror in her white face, and her eyes fastened upon her lover. Mr.
Thurwell looked from one to the other, not comprehending the situation.
The whole scene, the glittering table laden with flowers and wine, the
wondering servant, the attitude and faces of the four