It is another summer evening, like that of four years ago, and Everet is again with Braine at the little cottage. He is impressed less with the sorrow than with the rugged strength of the man who rises from his flower-bed to greet him.

"Work is good for you," he says, scanning the face of his friend; "and the work is good, too. I did not believe it possible that the man of action, relinquishing action as you have done, could become a power as the man of thought. But you have wrought that miracle."

"The work is effective, then?"

"More. It is inspiring. Your printed words do not draw men to you as your eloquence did, and you take no personal part in directing human endeavor, but you are influencing others to action as you never did before, and instead of one great Edgar Braine, filling the eye of the public, we have thousands inspired by him to do his work for the betterment of the land and the time. My friend, I once tried to draw you from the solitude in which you were wasting yourself, as I supposed; I have no wish now to draw you from a seclusion in which you are doing a nobler work than in your most active days."

"Thank you, Everet—and thank God! I have atonement to make, you know, and it is encouraging to know that I am making it."

And so the two talk on of public matters, with no further reference to the more sensitive matters of personal feeling, until the clean boy has served the supper, and they have finished it. Then, as they sit together in the open air, Braine says:

"And now, Everet?"

Everet understands, and takes a preparatory long breath. He begins:

"I told you I had come from New York instead of Washington?"

"Yes."

"Well, she is there."

"Yes?" as Everet pauses.

"Yes. She could not remain in Washington any longer. She has been in New York for six months now."

"What is she doing?"

Everet does not reply for a moment; then he continues:

"The last year she was there was a disastrous one for her. The old set were enraged by certain of her desperate exploits in finance, and she did not get on with the new. It was impossible for her to remain there any longer, so she sought a new field in New York."

He is reluctant to say more, and pauses again.

"Well?" Braine speaks obstinately. "Go on."

"She went to New York and began living on a large scale—she still lives on a large scale—but Helen is a fine-grained woman to her finger tips, no matter what she has done. The Washington politician is bad enough, but the New York politician is a good deal worse—to a woman. When Helen sinks to the street commissioner and the sheriff, she is to be pitied. And it will come to that. Now that she has left the field that she was so long mistress of, she will not be able to reach the superior villains—no: that is hard on them. I'll call them men—we're all men."

He looks meditatively into the darkness.

"No, Helen cannot carry on transactions with her kind any more, and she must use these others." Then, continuing grimly, "How she will bring herself to assimilate with—"

"Everet—you—you are speaking of Helen."

There is no anger in the tone. It is a tone rather of tenderness and surprise.

Everet bites his lip, and says:

"Forgive me, Braine. I—forgot it."

After a time, Braine asks:

"Do you think it would be of any use to go to her, Everet? I would tell her that I loved her just the same, you know, and want her back; or do you think I had better wait awhile,—until she is ready to return of herself?"

He speaks with the old, wistful intonation.

Everet replies earnestly:

"No, Braine. It is better for you to—wait. It would do no good for you to go. There is no use in your putting yourself in the way of affront—"

"I should not mind that," quickly.

"No—not if it would do any good. But it would be useless. I know what I say, Braine. I—I have seen her. She would not return—she would not see you."

Braine sighs heavily.

After a time, he leaves Everet to smoke a last cigar, and goes to his work at his desk, from which he does not rise till morning.