On this selfsame day, after a two hours' trip on the cars, Helen found herself at length at her destination. It was somewhat after three when she stood ringing the front-door bell of a substantial brown-stone house in a quiet side street. The city seemed hot indeed after the dewy freshness of the country, and the sun's rays beat relentlessly upon the stone flagging and cobblestones. The rumblings of carriages and wagons rolling by, the tinkling of the far off car-bells, the constant roar of the great city fell strangely upon the girl's ears so unaccustomed to the ceaseless din. Just then a street vender passed by, his shrill voice crying now and again, "Peaches! peaches! ten cents a quart!" Helen watched him pityingly until her attention was attracted by a hand-organ grinding away, "White wings, they never grow weary." Two poor little urchins sat on a neighboring doorstep pitching pennies, their small pale faces making her heart ache as she wondered what a glimpse of green fields and winding lanes would be to them. A feeling of sadness assailed her, as these sights and sounds, so familiar to city life, awakened within her a realization that outside of her sheltered life lay so many full of sorrow and suffering. Her reverie was cut short by the appearance of the maid, who immediately ushered her into the darkened drawing-room. Between the closed shutters crept a few rays of straggling sunlight which fell upon the furniture in its muslin slips, the bronzes and gas jets in their wrappings of tarlatan.

Helen had hardly found a seat, when someone hastily descended the stairs, and pushing open the door, made a rush across the room and threw her arms about her.

"You dear girl," Miss Stuart cried, "how glad I am to see you, and how good of you to come. You cannot imagine how overjoyed I was when I received your telegram."

"But I wanted to come, Lillian. You do not seem to take that into consideration." Then, after a pause, "Ah! how lovely you look, but then it seems to me you invariably do."

Helen was right, for Miss Stuart, gowned in a dainty peignoir of white silk covered with filmy lace, looked especially charming.

At the compliment she laughed softly, and pinched Helen's cheek. "There is no curing you, is there, dear? I thought, perhaps, a separation from me might have improved you."

"But you must not expect it," Helen maintained naÏvely, "unless you grow less pretty."

Miss Stuart kissed her warmly. "Let us talk sense now," she said reprovingly. "Were you surprised at my message? I must explain. I was obliged to come down for mamma on a matter of business, and as it was too long a trip to return again to Bar Harbor to-day, I thought it better to rest, and remain overnight in town."

"And do you go back to-morrow?"

"Well, no; not if you will take me to Hetherford with you."

"Indeed I will, with the greatest pleasure."

"And you are quite sure it is convenient now? I did not expect to be with you until the middle of August, but being obliged to come down at this time, I thought perhaps I had better go to you at once for my visit. Later I have several others to pay, and do not know that I could manage then to get to Hetherford at all."

"I am delighted to have you at once, Lillian; you could not come too soon to please me, and you can always be sure of a welcome at the manor."

"Yes, with you, but I am not so sure of those sisters of yours."

Helen flushed. "Pray don't say that."

"Ah, my dear, don't let it trouble you. I rest quite content in your affection."

But whatever there was in Miss Stuart's words or tone, a shadow rested on Helen's face for some little while afterward.

Perhaps Lillian Stuart saw it, for, by and by, she began to speak again of the manor.

"You have no idea, Helen, how much I long to see your lovely home, nor with what pleasure I look forward to being with you, dearest."

"You are good to say so, Lillian, and I will do all in my power to make you happy."

"You will not have to try, dear, I am sure."

Miss Stuart rose and touched a bell. A quiet middle-aged woman answered it.

"Mrs. Perkins, Miss Lawrence remains with me overnight. See that dinner is prepared for us."

"Yes, Miss."

"Wait, Perkins. I want you to send Virginie to me."

In a moment the French maid was knocking on the door.

"Virginie, preparez la chambre voisine de la mienne, et portez-y le sac de Mlle. Lawrence."

When the girls at length were seated in Miss Stuart's pretty boudoir, they fell into a long and pleasant chat, finding much to say to one another after several months' separation.

By and by Miss Stuart presented a programme for the evening, saying. "Now, Helen, you little puritan, don't dare to find fault or criticise. My cousin, Harry Stuart, is going to take us to the theater, and it will be perfectly charming. He is almost like a brother to me, and there could not be the slightest impropriety in it."

Helen did not demur then, but, after returning from the theater and in looking back over the evening, she felt some misgivings. "Harry" proved to be a gay, scatterbrained youth, more or less in love with his beautiful cousin. He stared a little curiously at Helen on being presented, and then devoted himself exclusively to Miss Stuart, whom he treated with a lack of deference, a familiarity, which Helen hotly resented. Miss Stuart, however, was apparently quite oblivious of it, and flirted with him openly, exchanging glances of amusement with him, as Helen's face grew graver and graver.

A chance remark of his, which unfortunately reached Helen's ears, did not tend to soften her judgment of him.

"Who is your little friend, coz? She is tremendously respectable, and doesn't approve of us at all."

Helen retired to her room that night in a frame of mind to find serious fault with her fascinating friend.

Miss Stuart realized that she had gone a little too far, and determined to overcome the impression she had made. She well knew the power that her great beauty exerted over Helen, blinding her to faults that he who ran might read, so she coiled her mass of auburn hair most becomingly, slipped on a dainty pale blue wrapper, encased her feet in slippers of the same hue and presented herself in Helen's room, and proceeded to make herself so charming and agreeable that in ten minutes Helen had completely forgotten her grievance.

The following morning, at an early hour, they left for Hetherford. Helen neglected to wire Jean of their change of plan, so no carriage met them at the station, and they were obliged to rumble up to the manor in the old Hetherford stage.

Helen's heart sank when Jean ran down to the veranda to tell her of Gladys' accident.

"You cannot imagine how I felt, Helen, for I knew it was all my fault. I should not have forgotten her for one moment."

"Indeed, I think you were very careless, Jean." Helen spoke sharply, for her anxiety made her nervous and irritable.

Jean had gone forward and shaken hands with Miss Stuart, but at these words she turned abruptly away. She felt so reproached and woe-begone. It almost seemed to her that all the world must know how completely absorbed she had been in that sweet talk with Farr, to have allowed her mind to wander from the little sister. In this guilty and depressed state of mind, her welcome to Miss Stuart somewhat lacked cordiality, and the latter, who had never liked Jean, found herself no whit better pleased.

Nathalie came flying down the stairs, making a fortunate diversion.

"Now, Helen, don't scold Jean, for she is heartbroken. Gladys is doing splendidly and will be about in a few days. How do you do, Miss Stuart? I am very glad to see you, and so sorry that our anxiety about Gladys is making us forget to make you at home. Please let me take your bag, and come right up to your old quarters."

Helen looked gratefully at her sister, and Miss Stuart's manner relaxed under this warm cordiality, and she followed Nathalie up to her room.

Jean went out upon the veranda, and walked slowly up and down. Her thoughts, which for a moment had been diverted, flew swiftly back to Farr. He had not spoken the words, yet she knew he loved her. She trembled a little, startled at the depth of emotion this knowledge aroused in her. So this was love—this sudden wild beating of her heart, this passionate joy of living.

"Poor fellow," she thought, with yearning tenderness, "how much he has suffered."

It was a blessed comfort to feel that it lay within her power to help to brighten his lonely, loveless life. She stood quite still and clasped her hands tightly together. "I love him! I love him!" The unspoken words sent the blood to her cheeks, and she was filled with dismay. She roused herself abruptly from her dream and hastened upstairs to join Helen in the nursery.

That day seemed interminable to Jean. When the long afternoon had worn away and Farr had not come, she consoled herself with the thought that the evening would surely bring him. She tried to curb her impatience by filling the slow-footed moments with manifold unnecessary duties, but it seemed to her that the happy time would never come.

They were all very quiet at dinner, for Helen was listening for the slightest sound from the nursery, while Jean's absorbing thoughts held her tongue in chains.

"Well, well," cried Nathalie at last, "what will Miss Stuart think of us? No doubt that this is the home of the Sphinx. Our silence is growing gruesome."

Thus recalled to her duties as hostess, Helen glanced quickly at her friend, and was distressed to see the expression of cold disdain that rested on her face.

"I beg your pardon, Lillian," she said penitently, leaning forward and taking Miss Stuart's hand. "I am so upset about Gladys that I have forgotten my manners."

"Pray, don't apologize, Helen. It is of no consequence whatever." Miss Stuart spoke with studied indifference and withdrew her hand. She deemed it only her right to be first with her friends always and under all circumstances; and to have Helen, adoring, subservient Helen, relegate her to a position of secondary importance was an offense which merited instant punishment.

Jean and Nathalie, on the alert for any slight to their sister, exchanged significant glances.

Helen made no further demonstration of affection, but began to talk gently and courteously to her guest. Jean and Nathalie came valiantly to her assistance, until at last Miss Stuart was forced to respond to their friendly overtures. When they were leaving the dining room she slipped her hand into Helen's arm. It was the nearest approach to an apology of which her nature was capable, and Helen had fain to be content. All her life Miss Stuart had been in the habit of snubbing people at her own sweet will and had found it a diverting occupation; but somehow it hurt her to snub Helen, the girl was always so patient and generous about it.

They drifted quite naturally out onto the veranda. The sky was overcast, and a faint wind sighed among the trees. The heavy clouds promised rain, and the earth, after reveling in days of sunshine and nights of brilliant beauty, seemed wrapped in melancholy submission.

Before very long Nan and Emily came running across the lawn. Nan greeted Miss Stuart cordially, but Emily was very cool, and looked askance at this dangerously beautiful addition to their circle. When she had shaken hands, she faced the girls as solemn as a judge.

"Girls, what do you suppose has happened? The Vortex has gone away, and those miserable men never came to say good-by, and did not even send a line."

"Now see here, Emily," Nan interposed warmly. "I don't believe in being unjust. It must have been a sudden move, and of course we will hear from them."

"It is a great shame," complained Nathalie. "What shall we do with ourselves?"

At Emily's first words Jean started forward, then fell back in her chair, dazed and stunned. She pressed her hand against her heart to stay its loud throbbing, passionately grateful that the kindly darkness sheltered her from view. She could not tell how long it might have been when she was aroused by a sentence from Emily which arrested her attention.

"Yes, it is such a pretty stitch. I'll teach it to you some day, Helen."

Had she heard aright? Could it be possible that the Vortex was already forgotten—its officers banished to the indifferent past? Her sudden excitement died away and a dull feeling of pain tugged at her heart. Her hands dropped nervelessly into her lap, and her lids closed wearily over her aching eyes.

The conversation drifted into local channels, and Miss Stuart was beginning to feel very much bored when Eleanor and Cliff sauntered up the driveway and joined the party. She awaked from her apathy to survey Cliff critically, and then proceeded to monopolize his attention. Cliff dropped into a chair beside her and lent himself readily to her plan. She was a charming woman, a beautiful woman, so he assumed his most devoted manner, and apparently succumbed at once to her gracious, subtle flattery. Eleanor cast an amused glance at him over her shoulder; she felt too sure of him to be disturbed; and pushing her way among the group until she reached Jean's side:

"I met Johnnie Matthews at the gate, dear. He was on his way to the manor with a note for you, and, since it required no answer, I volunteered to bring it up."

"Thanks, Eleanor. I suppose Mrs. Matthews wants me to take her class again next Sunday. She has been ill."

Eleanor had dropped the note into Jean's lap and was moving away, but something in her friend's voice startled her. She looked at her curiously, but in that light she could not discern her expression. She hesitated a moment, and then sat down on the arm of Jean's chair.

"How is Gladys to-night?" she asked.

Jean made an effort to speak more naturally.

"Very comfortable, thank you. The doctor says her arm is doing nicely, and so far she has not had any fever."

"Eleanor, did you know the Vortex had gone?"

As Nathalie spoke Eleanor impulsively took Jean's hand in hers. It was very cold, and trembled in her clasp. Jean's unhappiness was explained, and at the same moment another idea flashed through her mind. She answered Nathalie with well-feigned lightness:

"It can't be more than a temporary absence, I am sure." Then added in a lower tone to Jean, "Don't you want to read your note, dearie? It may not be from Mrs. Matthews."

Jean gave a start, and, instinctively, her disengaged hand closed over the note in her lap.

"I think I will take it to the light."

She rose hurriedly and made her way to the doorway, where the light from the lamp fell upon her letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and Jean's heart seemed to stand still as she tore open the envelope. The opening words dispelled the last doubt; her whole expression changed, and she eagerly drank in the contents of the sheet, all unconscious of the pair of eyes that were watching her narrowly. Nothing escaped Miss Stuart. She saw plainly the sudden start, the rising color, the tremulous happiness in the young girl's face. Perhaps the sight stirred some strange memory, deep hidden in her heart, for she smiled bitterly, and answered some pleasantry of Cliff's with such stinging cynicism that even that languid youth was aroused to retort.

But to Jean the whole world was forgotten, as she read the lines:

My Dear Miss Lawrence:

It is with deep regret I write you that the Vortex has been ordered up the Sound to survey a certain locality. Most unfortunately, our orders came very late. We have only just time to catch the tide by weighing anchor at once. I do not know whether you realize how great is my disappointment at leaving Hetherford, or how great is my regret at not seeing you before I go. Our stay, I trust, will not extend beyond a week, and I look forward with great pleasure to the time when we once more cast anchor in your harbor. I shall be anxious for news of little Gladys, and if I did not fear to presume, I should ask you to write me. Perhaps your goodness of heart will prompt you to forgive and indulge me at the same time. My address will be F——, which is the post-office nearest to our anchorage.

Yours faithfully,
Valentine Farr.