loved Sir Geoffrey Kynaston,
but, nevertheless, he had expected her to show more emotion than this,
if only for the horror of it all. And yet, looking at her more closely,
he began to understand--to realize that her calmness was only attained
by a strenuous repression of feeling, and that underneath it all was
something very different. Though her voice was firm, her cheeks were
deadly pale, and there was a peculiar tightening of the lips and light
in her eyes which puzzled him. Her expression seemed to speak less of
passive grief, than of some active determination--some strong desire.
She had all the appearance of a woman who was bracing herself up for
some ordeal, nerving herself with all the stimulus of a firm will to
triumph over her natural feelings, and follow out a difficult purpose.
Mr. Thurwell scarcely recognized his own daughter. She was no longer a
somewhat languid, beautiful girl, looking out upon the world with a sort
of petulant indifference--petulant, because, with all the high
aspirations of a somewhat romantic disposition, she could see nothing in
it to interest her. All that had passed away. The warm breath of some
awakening force in her nature seemed to have swept before it all her
languor, and all her petulance. They were gone, and in their place was a
certain air of reserve and thoughtful strength which seems always to
cling to those men and women who face the world with a definite purpose
before them. Mr. Thurwell knitted his brows, and had nothing to say.

A sad little procession was formed, and started slowly for the cottage
on the cliff side, the four stalwart men stooping beneath their heavy
burden, and somehow falling into the measured steady tramp common to
corpse bearers. None of them ever forgot that walk. Slowly they wound
their way around many brilliant patches of deep yellow gorse and purple
heather, and the warm sunlight glancing across the moor and glittering
away over the water threw a strange glow upon the still, cold face of
their ghastly burden. A soft breeze sprung from the sea, herald of the
advancing eventide, following the drowsy languor of the perfect autumnal
day. The faintly stirred air was full of its quickening exhilaration,
but it found no human response in their heavy hearts. Solemn thoughts
and silence came over all of them. Scarcely a word was spoken on the way
to their destination.

By some chance, or at least it seemed like chance, Helen found herself a
few steps be