[From Helen's Diary.]

February 16, 18—. To-day Edgar came into the library after dinner—I dined alone, and was taking my coffee there, cosily, by the fire. He stood in the door a moment, looking at me, before he entered the room. The first thing he said was:

"Good Heavens! What should not a woman like you be able to accomplish—"

This, after having been out of town three days!

He said it as though wholly engrossed with that one thought—that my beauty and charm are valuable to him as a means by which to accomplish, instead of being things dear to him for their own sake, because they belong to him.

I daresay I am foolishly sensitive about this. I know he adores me. He proved the injustice of my thought a moment later—while the impression was yet in my mind. He hurried across the room and threw himself on his knees by my chair. I had not risen to meet him, as my heart and first impulse had prompted, because his greeting had repelled me, but I felt humiliated and reproached myself for my pettiness afterwards.

I was thankful that he was so engrossed with seeing me again as not to notice it. He threw himself on his knees by me and kissed my hands.

He looks tired and worn. It impressed me for the first time as he knelt there with his arms about my waist. He said, in a tone that brought the tears to my eyes:

"I have thought of you almost constantly, dear, since I have been away from you."

He said it wistfully. I knew his mind had been on the scene we had, here, in this room where I am writing, before he left.

There was a sort of dreary surrender in his tone; but every inflection of his voice, and every glance, conveyed passionate love for me. I should have felt no reproach or misgiving had it been otherwise, but his apparent giving up, and hopelessness, touched me.

I do not know that I have done right. I have not mentioned the subject, nor has he referred to it in any way since he got back this evening. I don't know that it is anything sufficiently out of the usual order of things to justify my decision. That Edgar is cruelly disappointed is certain. That he does not reproach me is certain. That he loves me better than he ever has done before, is certain.

Two months ago, had I greeted him after a twenty-four hours' absence as indifferently as I fear I did to-night, he would not have forgotten it in a month, but he was so thoroughly engrossed in his own happiness in getting home to me to-night, that he did not even notice my manner.

I feel my purpose suddenly shaken. The memory of his face, its resignation, its weary expression, haunts me. One moment I am impelled to say "I will do anything you ask," and the next, I am seized with repulsion at the thought of accomplishing anything by such a means.

The idea of a woman's receiving adulation from another man than her husband, seems a scandalous thing; but the idea of her courting it—setting out with a deliberate purpose to win it—seems monstrous.

And yet, if Edgar doesn't rebel, I don't really see much excuse for obstinacy on my part. It does seem a little "far fetched" in me when I come to consider the circumstances. If it were a usual thing, a thing that would be considered as a matter of course, I should feel less strongly about it, but it is so extraordinary—at least it seems so to me.

I can imagine Mrs. Hetherington exclaiming: "Disgraceful!" and see Gladys's look of cold surprise, tinged with her ironical expression that she preserves for the little, unconventional escapades of A, B and C. This kind of thing is intolerable to me. When I think of this, every fibre of my body resents the possibility of such a thing. And when I remember his face to-night, I can no longer think on the other side of the question.

He is over at the Arlington at this moment, engaged in heaven knows what, that will send him home to me looking more depressed and miserable than ever.

Some one taps lightly on the door, and opens it without ceremony, and Helen throws down her pen as Braine enters.

It is as she has expected. His face and manner indicate fatigue. He brightens up and says with a show of gayety so evidently forced that Helen's lips tremble a little:

"Well, dearest!"

She goes slowly to him, and takes his hands which he is holding out to her. She looks at him wistfully, with a half sad little smile on her face. She says softly:

"Well?"

"You are all alone to-night? No receptions, nor 'affairs'?"

The glimmer-smile deepens a little, and she draws him towards the fire. She says—pushing him into the chair:

"Oh yes—plenty of them—Gladys gave a dinner to the Stones to-night."

"And you are not there?" with a little surprise in his voice, but an expression half-eager, half-pleased on his face.

She brightens as she notes the look, and says softly:

"No, I like this better."

She leans against him, and rubs her cheek carelessly against his shoulder.

The gratified expression deepens an instant; then Braine says a little hurriedly, with a touch of anxiety in the tone:

"You must not neglect anything for me, dearest. Social duties are everything here. Don't mind me. I sha'n't feel neglected."

Helen slowly raises her head. She stares at him for a moment. He is looking abstractedly into the fire, and patting her hand in a mechanical way. He does not see her face. The expression of pleasure and gratification has died out of it. Expressions of astonishment, humiliation, resentment and hauteur replace each other there successively. Now she says in a cold tone:

"I did not remain on that account, of course. I had a slight headache—a mere nothing—" as Braine looks up anxiously—"But I felt that the crush there to-night would not help it."

She finishes a little less coldly. Braine has not noticed the tone. When she has said that the headache is a "mere nothing," he at once goes back to his meditations—but the sudden look of anxious sympathy has at once touched her, and caused another revulsion of feeling in his favor.

She crosses the room and picks up a book from the table.

Suddenly Braine says, as though thinking aloud:

"If this should go any farther it would be a bad thing for Grayson."

Helen looks up from her book:

"Why? What is it?"

Braine arouses himself, and speaks interestedly:

"This land grant bill! Gladys has been trying to run things, it seems, and has made a botch of it. She has gone too headlong, and compromised herself to such an extent with the committee chief, that when she was prepared for a coup de grace, the congressman turned the tables. It is a bad thing for Grayson. The man has her in his power, and swears that unless Grayson will actively uphold the counter-policy, he will make it uncomfortable for his wife. Grayson has just been telling me all about it, and is almost helpless in the matter. Something must be done."

Helen is on her feet. Her eyes are wide with astonishment, and something like horror. She stammers:

"What—what—what?"

Her tone startles Braine. He looks around:

"Why Helen! What is the matter, child, I didn't imagine it would startle you so. Of course you feel anxiety for Gladys—friends as you are—but she is a clever woman, and I have no doubt she will get out of it in some way."

He speaks reassuringly. She comes to his side. She says hoarsely, with excitement expressed in every movement;

"Has—has—has Gladys been working through Mr. Dalzel for this scheme?"

Her fingers twist nervously. Braine cannot understand her. He looks at her in bewilderment:

"Working for it? Why certainly, dear. Why shouldn't she—her husband's interests are hers. Yes. She has been doing what she could, of course—she has done her best, and isn't to blame for such a faux pas as this; but it seems a little stupid in her. There would be no danger of such a thing on your part!"

He makes the remark more to himself than to her, and leans back, watching her through his half-closed lids. How proud he is of this woman! How he loves her!

Helen stands quietly by his side, looking intently at the coals in the grate. Presently she says in a low, calm tone of conviction, elation, irrevocable decision:

"No, I should make no mistakes."

A silence. After a moment:

"I have been thinking over the little conversation we had before you left, Edgar. I have changed my mind. I think I will see—Everet."

Braine rises from his chair. He stands looking at her for a moment. He takes her in his arms.