women in the world have won so much devotion. I have just
seen Jack Holt, who had to give her up, and I am far from believing that
nobody likes her."

"But why did he give her up?" questioned Helen.

"Why did she give him up," I returned with heat, "except that he had
lost his fortune, and instead of being able to endow her with all the
good things of life, himself needed aid, sympathy, love and comfort?"

Helen stared at me: "But he told Georgy she was free."

"Suppose," said I passionately, "that a man had loved you from your
earliest childhood, Helen--that instead of your being possessed of
wealth and other facilities for making your life all you wished, you
were poor and obscure, and this man had made every sacrifice to gratify
every desire of your heart. Suppose you had read his soul like a printed
page, and found every thought in it noble, lofty and pure; suppose you
knew that his happiness depended on you--that without you he could not
have one sacred personal hope,--when you found that he was poor instead
of rich, would you throw him over as you put away a glove that is worn
out, even though he told you you were free--that although you had shared
his prosperity he shrank from letting you endure the pains of his
adversity?"

Helen was looking at me with a curious look in her brilliant dark eyes,
and still watched me when I paused.

"Would you have accepted such freedom?" I demanded, impatient that she
did not respond.

"I would have died for him!" she exclaimed abruptly, but she said no
more about Georgy or her lovers.

The sun had set, and the glory of the clouds was all reflected in the
sea. The air grew chilly, and we went in and watched at the front door
for Mr. Floyd and my mother to return from their drive. It seemed
curiously like the old times, and once or twice I started at some sound,
expecting to hear a querulous voice and see old Mr. Raymond with his fur
wrappings crossing the hall leaning on Frederick, who carried his
tiger-skin. Helen was too quick and sympathetic not to understand my
startled look.

"He will never come any more," said she sadly. "He is sleeping up on the
hill beside his wife and all his children. Had it not been for papa I
should have felt that I must go there too, it seemed so strange and
lonely for him."

Presently through the pale gloaming came my mother from her drive, and
when I lifted her from the carriage and almost bore her up the steps in
my arms, I felt a ha