WEEK went by. Helen Warren had been sitting that warm afternoon in the big bay-window of the parlor. A cooling breeze fanned the old lace curtains inward, bringing the perfume of the the garden and now and then revealing a wealth of color on the rose-bushes near by. She had just read an appealing letter from Sanders in which he had expressed himself as having been so disturbed by her refusal to assure him positively of what his ultimate fate was to be that he had permitted himself to worry considerably. So greatly concerned, indeed, was he that he had confided in his mother, who, he wrote, had made matters worse by asking him flatly if he was absolutely sure that he was loved in the one and only way a man should be loved by the woman he was hoping to win for his wife.

He was writing all this to Helen in a straightforward, manly way, putting her sharply on her honor, as it were, and she, poor girl, was worried in her turn. Leaving her chair, she went to the piano and seated herself and began to play. She was thus occupied when Ida Tarpley came in suddenly and unannounced, as she felt privileged to do at any time.

“Well, tell me,” the visitor smiled, “what's the matter with your playing? Why, you used to have a good, even touch, but as I came up the walk I declare I thought it was some one tuning the piano. You were dropping enough notes to fill a waste-paper basket.”

“Oh, I'm not in the mood for it, I presume!” Helen said, checking a sigh.

“I understand.” Miss Tarpley gently pushed back Helen's hair and kissed her brow. “You can't deny it; you were thinking about Carson Dwight and all his troubles.”

Helen flushed and dropped her glance to her lap, then she rose from the piano and the two girls moved hand in hand to the window. “The truth is,” Helen admitted, “that I have been wondering if anything has gone wrong with him—any bad news or indications about his election.”

“He can't be worrying about the election,” Ida said, confidently. “Mr. Garner comes to see me often and confides in me rather freely, and he says the people are flocking back to Carson in swarms and droves. They understand him now and admire him for the courageous stand he took.”

“Well, something is wrong with him,” Helen declared, eying her cousin sadly. “Mam' Linda never makes a mistake; she knows him through and through. She went to thank him last night for getting a position for Pete to work regularly at the flouring mill, and she came back really depressed and shaking her head.

“'Suppin certain sho gone wrong wid young mars-ter, honey,' she said. 'He ain't never been lak dis before; he ain't hisse'f, I tell you! He's yaller an' shaky an' look quar out'n de eyes.'”

“Oh!” and Miss Tarpley sank into one of the chairs in the window. “I'm almost sorry you mentioned that, for now I'll worry. I've always had his cause at heart, and now—Helen, I'm afraid something very, very serious is hanging over him.

I'm not hinting at anything that might come out of his disappointment over your affair with Mr. Sanders, either. It seems to me he accepted that as inevitable and is making the best of it, but it is something else.”

“Something else!” Helen repeated. “Oh, Ida, how horribly you talk! Do you mean—is it possible that he was more seriously wounded that night than he has let us know?”

“No, it's not that. I don't know what it is. In fact, Mr. Garner says—”

“What does he say, Ida?” Helen threw into the gap left by her cousin's failure to proceed, and stood staring.

“Well, you know it is easy sometimes to tell when one is not revealing everything, and I felt that way about Mr. Garner when he called night before last. In the first place, though he tried to do it in a casual sort of way, he kept talking of Carson all the time. It was almost as if he had come to see if I would confirm some secret fear of his, for he seemed to get near it several times and then backed out. Once he went further than he intended, for he said, as if it were a slip of the lip, when we were speculating on the possible cause of Carson's depression—he said, 'There is one thing, Miss Ida, that I fear, and I fear it so much that I dare not even mention it to myself.'”

“Oh!” exclaimed Helen, and she leaned on the back of her chair; “what could he have meant?”

“I don't know; Mr. Garner wouldn't explain; in fact, he seemed rather upset by his unintentional remark. He laughed awkwardly and changed the subject, and never alluded to Carson again while he stayed. As he was getting his hat in the hall, I followed him and tried to pin him down to some sort of explanation, and then he made an effort to throw me off. 'Oh,' he said, 'you know Carson is terribly blue about losing Helen, and it has, of course, caused him to care less about his election, but he'll come around in time.' I told Mr. Garner then that I was sure he had meant something else. I was looking straight at him and saw his glance fall, but that was all I got out of him. Something is wrong, Helen—something very, very serious.”

“Have you seen Carson lately, Ida?” Helen asked, with rigid lips.

“Not to speak to him; he seems to avoid me, but as I sat in the window of my room yesterday afternoon I saw him go by. He didn't see me, but I saw his face in repose, and oh, cousin, it wrung my heart. He really must have some great secret trouble, and it hurts me to feel that I can't help him bear it. He used to confide in me, but he seems to shun me now, and that, too, in itself, is queer.”

“It is not about his mother, either,” Helen sighed, “for her health has been improving lately.” And as Miss Tarpley was leaving she accompanied her, gloomily to the door.

The twilight fell softly, and as Helen sat in the hammock on the veranda her father came in at the gate and up the walk. She rose to greet him with her customary kiss, and taking his arm they began to stroll back and forth along the veranda. She was hoping that he would speak of Carson Dwight, but he didn't, and she was forced to mention him herself, which she did rather stiffly in her effort to make it appear as merely casual.

“Ida was saying this afternoon that Carson is not looking well—or, rather, that he seems to be worried,” she faltered out, and then she hung on to the Major's arm and waited.

“Oh, I don't know,” the old gentleman said, reflectively. “I went into his office this afternoon to get a blank check, and found him at his desk with a pile of letters from his supporters all over the county. Well, I acknowledge I wondered why he should have so little enthusiasm when the thing is going his way like the woods afire, and his crusty old father fairly chuckling with pride and delight; but what's the use of talking to you! You know if he is blue there is only one reason for it.”

“Only one reason!” Helen echoed, faintly.

“Yes, how could the poor boy be happy—thoroughly, so I mean—when the whole town can talk of nothing else but the grandeur of your approaching marriage. Mrs. Snodgrass has started the report that your aunt is to give you a ten-thousand-dollar trousseau and that Sanders is to load you down with family jewels. Mrs. Snod says we are going to have such a crowd here at the house that the verandas will be enclosed in canvas and the tables be set barbecue fashion on the lawn, and that the family servants and all their unlynched descendants are to be brought from the four quarters of the earth to wait on the multitude in the old style. You needn't bother; that's what ails Carson. He's got plenty of pride, and that sort of talk will hurt any man.” But Helen was unconvinced. After supper she sat alone on the veranda, her father being occupied with the evening papers in the library. What could Garner have meant by his remark to Ida? With a heavy heart and her hands tightly clasped in her lap, Helen sat trying to fathom the mystery, for that there was mystery she had no doubt.

She went back to the first days of her return home. When she had arrived her heart—the queer, inconsistent thing which was now so deeply concerned with Carson Dwight's affairs—had been coldly steeled against him. The next salient event of that gladsome period was the ball in her honor of which all else had faded into the background except that memorable talk with Carson and his promise to remove Pete from the temptations of living in town. The boy had gone, then the real trouble had begun. Carson had rescued him from a violent death before her very eyes. That speech of his was never to be forgotten. It had roused her as she had never been roused by human eloquence. With a throb of terror, she heard the report of the pistol fired by Dan Willis, his avowed enemy—Dan Willis upon whom a just Providence had visited—visited—visited—She sat staring at the ground, her beautiful eyes growing larger, her hands clutching each other like clamps of vitalized steel.

“Oh!” she cried. “No, no! not that—not that!” It was an accident. The coroner and his jury had said so. But how strange! No one had mentioned it, and yet it had happened on the very day Carson had ridden along the fatal road to reach Springtown. She knew the way well. She herself had driven over it twice with Carson, and had heard him say it was the nearest and best road, and that he would never take any other.

Ah, yes, that was the explanation—that was what Garner feared. That was the terrible fatality which the shrewd lawyer, knowing its full gravity, had hardly dared mention even to himself. Carson Dwight, her hero, had killed a man!

Helen rose like a mechanical thing, and with dragging feet went up the stairs to her room. Before her open window—the window looking out upon the Dwight lawn and garden—she sat in the still darkness, now praying that Carson might appear as he sometimes did. If she saw him, should she go to him? Yes, for the pain, the cold clutch on her heart of the discovery was like the throes of death. She told herself that she had been the primal cause of this as of all his suffering. In the blind desire to oblige her, he had wrecked his every hope. He had lost all and yet was uncomplaining. Indeed, he was trying to hide his misfortune, bearing it alone, like the man he was.

She heard her father closing the library windows to prepare for bed. His steps rang hollowly as he came out into the hall below and called up to her: “Daughter, are you asleep?”

A reply hung in her dry throat. She feared to trust her voice to utterance. She heard the Major mutter, as if to himself, “Well, good-night, daughter,” and then his footsteps died out. Again she was alone with her grim discovery.

The town clock had just struck ten when she saw the red coal of a cigar on the Dwight lawn quite near the gate leading into her father's grounds. It was he. She knew it by the fitful flaring of the cigar. Noiselessly she glided down the stairs, softly she turned the big brass key in the massive lock and went out and sped, light of foot, across the dewy grass. As she approached him Dwight was standing with his back to her, his arms folded.

“Carson!” she called, huskily, and he turned with a start and a stare of wonder through the gloom.

“Oh,” he said, “it's you,” and doffing his hat he came through the gateway and stood by her. “It's time, young lady, that you were asleep, isn't it?”

She saw through his effort at lightness of manner.

“I noticed your cigar and wanted to speak to you,” she said, in a voice that sounded tense and even harsh. It rose almost in a squeak and died in her tight throat. Something in his wan face and shifting eyes, noticeable even in the darkness, confirmed her in the conviction that she had divined his secret.

“You wanted to see me,” he said; “I've had so many things to think about lately, in this beastly political business, you know, that I'm sadly behind in my social duties.”

“I—I've been thinking about you all evening,” she said, lamely. “Somehow, I felt as if I simply must see you and talk to you.”

“How good of you!” he cried. “I don't deserve it, though—at such a time, anyway. It is generally conceded that it is a woman's duty, placed as you are, to think of only one thing and one individual. In this case the man is the luckiest one in God's universe. He's well-to-do, has scores of admiring, influential friends, and is to marry the grandest, sweetest woman on earth. If that isn't enough to make a man happy, why—”

“Stop; don't speak that way!” Helen commanded. “I can't stand it. I simply can't stand it, Carson!”

He stared at her inquiringly for a moment, as she stood with her face averted, and then he heaved a big sigh as he gently, almost reverently, touched her sleeve to direct her glance upon himself.

“What is it, Helen?” he said, softly, a wealth of tenderness in his shaking voice. “What's gone wrong? Don't tell me you are unhappy. Things have gone crooked with me of late—I—I mean that my father has been displeased, till quite recently at least, and I have not been in the best mood; but I have been sustained by the thought that you, at least, were happy. If I thought you were not, I don't know what I would do.”

“How can I be happy when you—when you—” Her voice dwindled away into nothingness, and she could only face him with all her agony and despair burning in her great, melting eyes.

“When I what, Helen?” he asked, gropingly. “Surely you are not troubled about me, now that my political horizon is so bright that my opponent can't look at it without smoked glasses. Oh, I'm all right. Ask Garner—ask your father—ask Braider—ask anybody.”

“I was not thinking of your election,” she found voice, to say. “Oh, Carson, do have faith in me! I crave it; I long for it; I yearn for it. I want to help you. I want to stand by you and suffer with you. You can trust me. You tried me once—you remember—and I stood the test. Before God, I'll never breathe it to a soul. Oh”—stopping him by raising her despairing hand—“don't try to deceive me because I'm a girl. The uncertainty is killing me. I'll not close my eyes to-night. The truth will be easier borne because I'll be bearing it—with you.”

“Oh, Helen, can it be possible that you—” He had spoken impulsively and essayed to check himself, but now, pale as a corpse, he stood before her not knowing what to do or say. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then with a helpless shrug of his shoulders he lapsed into silence, a droop of utter despondency upon him. She was now sure she was right, and a shaft she had never met before entered her heart and remained there—remained there to strengthen her, good woman that she was, as such things have strengthened women of all periods. She laid her firm hand upon his arm in a pressure meant to comfort him, and with the purity of a sorrowing angel she said: “I know the truth, dear Carson, and if you don't show me a way to get you out from under it—you who did it all for my sake—if you don't I shall die. I can't stand it.”

He stood convicted before her. With bowed head he remained silent for a moment, then he said, almost with a groan: “To think, on top of it all, that you must know—you! I was bearing it all right, but now you—you poor, gentle, delicate girl—you have to be dragged into this as you have been dragged into every miserable thing that ever happened to me. It began with your brother's death—I helped stain that memory for you—now this—this unspeakable thing!”

“You did it wholly in self-defence,” she said. “You had to do it. He forced it on you.”

“Yes, yes—he or fate, the imps of Satan or the elemental passion born in me. Flight, open flight lay before me, but that would have been the death of self-respect—so it came about.”

“And you kept it on account of your mother?” she went on, insistently, her agonized face close to his.

“Yes, of course. It would kill her, Helen, and I would be doing it deliberately, for I know what the consequences would be. I must be my own tribunal. I have no right to take still another life that legal curiosity may be gratified. But till I am proven innocent I am a murderer—that's what hurts. I am offering myself to my fellow-men as a maker of laws, and yet am deliberately defying those made by my predecessors.”

“Your mother must never know,” Helen said, firmly. “No one shall but you and I, Carson. We'll bear it together.” She took his hand and held it tightly for a moment, then pressing it tenderly against her cold cheek, she lowered her head and left him—left him there under the vague starlight, the soulful fragrance of her soothing personality upon him, causing him to forget his peril, his grief, and his far-reaching sorrow, and to draw close to his aching breast her heavenly sympathy and undying fidelity.