The following morning a note came for Helen by a messenger. It was from Lillian Stuart and, without a word of upbraiding for having been kept in ignorance of Helen's presence in town, begged for a visit from her prior to her return to Hetherford. Helen was fully alive to the generous spirit thus shown toward her, but it did not alter her determination to decline the invitation. She worded her answer as kindly as possible, while making her meaning quite clear. It hurt her cruelly to take this step, and as she sealed the envelope there were tears in her eyes.

It was Mrs. Hill's day at home, and when, after luncheon, Eleanor reminded Helen of this fact, the girl pleaded to be excused, for she felt far too depressed and out of sorts to meet people and to exert herself to entertain them. Mrs. Hill indulgently granted her request, and so she put on her hat and coat and started out for a walk. She strolled down a beautiful avenue, lined with fine residences, succeeded, as she proceeded, by richly and gayly ornamented shops. A crowd of people were passing up and down, and the street at times was almost blocked with an innumerable throng of equipages. When Helen had reached a point where this avenue is intersected by another, she crossed the street and entered a square, whose patches of grass and bare trees were a rest to her eyes after the rows of stately buildings all about her. Children were playing about on the smooth paths, and as Helen looked at them she found herself longing for a sight of dear little Gladys' round, chubby face. Across the street, on the block below, a swinging sign caught her attention. Its staring characters told her that an art exhibition was being held within, and she turned her steps in that direction. As she approached the showy and over-ornamented doorway, she glanced up at a man who was coming toward her. Something in his gait and general bearing struck her as familiar. As he gained her side he raised his hat, and she saw that he was Valentine Farr.

"Why, Miss Lawrence," he exclaimed, "this is a very great and unexpected pleasure. I had no idea you were in town. How are you?"

"Oh! very well, thank you, but," with a sympathetic glance at his arm, which she saw he carried in a sling, "have you been hurt, Mr. Farr?"

"I had a fall aboard ship on our way to Fort Munroe, and broke my arm. It was badly attended to, so I got leave to come home and have Dr. ——," naming a well-known surgeon, "fix it up for me."

"I am sorry," said Helen, looking at him with friendly eyes.

"Where were you going, Miss Lawrence?" Farr asked, as the surging throng crowded them close to the railing of a near house.

"I thought I would go in just above here, and see the pictures."

"Will you let me accompany you? I would deem it a very great favor, I have so many questions I want to ask you. I want to know all about Hetherford and everyone there.

"Indeed, I wish you would, and I will gladly satisfy your curiosity. There is not much to tell of Hetherford save that Jean has gone to Europe."

She tried to mention her sister's name quite naturally, but the color rose to her face, and she could not bring herself to look at her companion.

"To Europe?" he echoed, and could think of nothing further to say.

"I will tell you all about it when we are inside," Helen said to him rather flurriedly.

In a moment more they found themselves in a softly lighted room, the walls of which were lined with paintings. A few people, catalogue in hand, were slowly walking about or standing in groups of two or three before some painting of more than usual merit. Helen gained courage to raise her eyes to her companion's face, and something in its expression made her direct her steps at once toward a huge red ottoman which occupied the center of the room.

"Shall we sit down here and have our talk first?" her voice softly interrogated. "You can show me the pictures afterward."

Farr looked at her gratefully.

"It would be my wish, Miss Helen, but you mustn't let me bore you."

For answer, Helen seated herself and motioned him to take the place beside her.

"Jean went to Europe in October. She had not been at all well, and——"

"Not well?" he interrupted her with an anxious face.

"In fact, she was quite ill," Helen went on gravely, "and she had an opportunity to join some friends of ours who were over there, so we sent her in the hope that the change would benefit her."

"And how is she now?"

"Somewhat better, I think, but not very strong yet."

"I am deeply grieved," he answered, in a voice which his best efforts could not keep very steady.

There was a brief silence, during which Farr's eyes were fixed moodily on the carpet.

"I called to see your sister," he began at length, "the day before we left Hetherford, but she excused herself."

"I don't think Jean knew of your visit."

"You are mistaken," he returned bitterly. "The servant who admitted me had received orders that Miss Jean would not see me, and she made that fact patent to me beyond the possibility of any doubt."

"I cannot help that," said Helen, her determination to pursue the subject struggling against a sudden timidity. "I am sure you are wrong. I remember the afternoon perfectly. Nathalie and I had been to the inn, and when we reached home I found Jean on the sofa in her room, and I asked her if anyone had called, and she said 'no.'"

A puzzled expression crossed Farr's face.

"It is very strange. Why, Miss Helen, I wrote and asked your sister if she would see me, and she replied that she would be at home at the hour I mentioned in my note."

All at once there flashed through Helen's mind a recollection which suggested a most cruel suspicion. Farr was looking straight at her, his honest eyes demanding an honest answer.

"I cannot explain it, Mr. Farr," she said slowly, "but I feel perfectly safe in answering you that it was all a mistake, and that Jean never knew of your call at the manor."

"And what of the message the servant gave me? Forgive me, Miss Helen, if I seem to press you, but this is no light matter to me."

"I am quite sure that Jean never gave that message, although I can give you no further explanation of the matter."

Farr's face went very white, and, as Helen looked at him, she saw how much the past few months had changed him. There were deep lines about his mouth, and his grave eyes were immeasurably sad. Her heart went out to him in sudden sympathy, and she spoke to him with a touch of tenderness in her voice.

"Jean will be with us again at Christmas time, I hope, and then you must see her and let her explain to you how such a mistake was made."

Farr rested his elbow on his knee and dropped his head in his hand.

"If I only felt sure you were right, Miss Helen." He paused a moment, then resumed with deep earnestness, "I cared so much for your sister that the sudden withdrawal of her friendship was a bitter blow to me."

Helen's eyes were downcast, her lips refused to speak. The silence was broken by Farr.

"I think at one time I dreamed she cared for me a little, but my illusion was quickly dispelled."

Another pause of briefer duration, and then he turned to his companion with a question on his lips.

"How was it, Miss Helen? Did I presume too much on your sister's kindness to me? I suppose I must have, although it seems to me that I hardly deserved her excessive coldness and dislike."

Helen, thus put to the test, looked straight up at him, and answered a little tremulously:

"Mr. Farr, Jean always liked you."

He drew a quick sharp breath.

"Why do you think so?" he asked. Then before Helen could reply, he went on in a strained voice, "I loved Jean with all my heart, and was about to ask her to be my wife. I love her now—I shall always love her."

"And Jean cares for you," Helen whispered, so low he had to bend his head to catch the words.

"Cares for me?" he repeated, a sudden light in his eyes, his voice grown very deep and tender.

"Yes, oh yes. There must have been some wretched mistake which can be explained away. I don't know how it was," she went on with a plaintive smile. "Jean's heart was almost broken because of you, and she grew so ill we had to send her away."

"Thank God!" he ejaculated solemnly.

Helen broke into a little laugh, which was full of tears.

"That Jean has gone away?" she queried.

Farr lifted his head and drew a deep breath.

"I can't thank you, Miss Helen. I seem to have no words to express to you what you have done for me to-day. Indeed, it seems as if Fate, for once, had chosen to do me a kind turn."

After a little Helen said gently:

"You must come to the manor for Christmas, Mr. Farr. I can think of no greater happiness for Jean than to have you there to welcome her on her return."

"Miss Helen, I—I can't realize it. You——" His voice broke, but after a moment he resumed: "You are not holding out a vain hope to me—you are sure?"

Helen met his eyes steadily, and he was reassured, even before she answered gravely:

"Quite sure, Mr. Farr. Do you think I would have spoken else?"

She turned away her head, and he saw a tear on her cheek.

"I have tried to fill my mother's place to the girls, but I was blinded by personal interests, and did not understand about Jean until too late. I don't think I could have borne it if it had not been put in my power to retrieve my mistake."

Farr looked at her curiously, a thoroughly puzzled expression on his face. He opened his lips to question her, but suddenly changed his mind, and closed them without having spoken.

Helen rose from the ottoman.

"We have not seen the pictures, have we?" she asked in a lighter tone.

Farr stood looking down at her with earnest eyes.

"Miss Helen, if God is good to me, if all goes well, is there a welcome for me at the manor?"

She put out her hand to him, and he held it tightly for a moment.

"God bless you."

Some minutes later they descended the wide stairs, and, passing through the outer door, found themselves once more in the crowded thoroughfare. The short November day was drawing to a close, the wind was keen and sharp, and a flurry of snow filled the air.

"Now, Mr. Farr, I want you to put me in an omnibus, please, and you must not come uptown with me."

Then, as he demurred, she added, with a friendly smile:

"My mind is so full of thoughts, I would really rather be alone for a while. You understand, don't you?"

She turned on the steps of the omnibus to say:

"I will let you know about Jean's return, and remember, you are to spend Christmas with us."

"As if I could forget," Farr murmured to himself, as he strode away, his face alight with a great happiness.

As Helen rang the bell of the Hills' cozy apartment, the door was opened from the inside, and she found herself face to face with Lillian Stuart. From the drawing-room came the buzz of tongues, and through the half-open portiÈres she could see quite a number of people standing about. Miss Stuart answered her unspoken thought:

"Don't go in there, Helen; take me to your room. I want to speak to you for a moment. I have already made my call on the Hills."

Helen obediently led the way down the hall, but her heart was very heavy, for she had no courage for another scene this afternoon. She knew that the conversation must necessarily be painful, and she made every effort to put off the evil moment; but in vain. Almost before the door was closed Miss Stuart began:

"Now, Helen, will you please explain to me why you must return to Hetherford in such haste? Surely your aunt can spare you to me for a few days. I can't imagine how you could have planned to be in town, and not to be with me for a little visit."

Helen flushed guiltily.

"I am so sorry, dear," she faltered. "Another time, perhaps, but now I must go home."

Miss Stuart started up, loosening her fur boa impatiently.

"That is absolute folly. There is nothing to stand in the way unless——" She broke off abruptly, and her eyes searched Helen's downcast face. "Do you want to put an end to our friendship," she cried sharply. "Is that why you act so strangely?"

Helen lifted her hand with an imploring gesture of dissent.

"Answer me, Helen. Am I not right?"

Helen's head was bent still lower, and she made no attempt to speak. Miss Stuart watched her for a moment in silence, and a slight quiver passed over her face. She came a step nearer, and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder:

"Who has influenced you against me, Helen? What has happened?"

"Why, Lillian, what makes you say that? It is not fair, simply because in one instance I am unable to fulfill your wishes."

Miss Stuart withdrew her hand, and her brow darkened.

"Helen, Helen; you disappoint me. Let us have the truth at all hazards. Tell me frankly, would not your answer always be the same now, whenever I might ask you for a visit?"

Helen shivered a little, and she could not bring herself to meet the girl's eyes. Presently Miss Stuart spoke again, the effort to subdue all emotion rendering her voice cold and stern.

"I understand. You have withdrawn your friendship from me. Oh! no doubt you have discovered the depth of my unworthiness, and feel perfectly justified. Content in your own moral superiority, and in that of your friends in general, you have decided that it would be wiser to banish me from the inner circle. Of course," she went on with a bitter laugh, "you have not reached this conclusion alone. Would you mind telling me who has helped you to it?"

The taunting question stung Helen into a response:

"You told me an untruth, Lillian. You deliberately deceived me. You caused untold suffering to one who is very dear to me, to what end I cannot imagine. And this was your return for all the love and trust I had given you."

Miss Stuart turned a startled glance on Helen.

"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.

"I have seen Mr. Farr to-day, and a good many things that have puzzled me have been made clear. I am not judging you, Lillian. I am completely in the dark as to your motives. I only know that you were not honest with me."

"So you have seen Val Farr," murmured Miss Stuart. She flung back her head defiantly. "Well, what did he tell you of me? I thought he was too much of a man to speak ill of a woman."

"Your name was never mentioned, Lillian. I am not prepared to tell you what Mr. Farr said to me. Suffice it to say, it proved the untruth of what you led me to believe last summer."

Miss Stuart caught her breath.

"I suppose that means that he is in love with your sister?"

"We will not discuss that, please," replied Helen with quiet dignity.

Her companion laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound.

"Well, I could have told you that last summer. I did lie to you about it. The game is played out now, and I have lost, so there is no further reason why I should not tell you the truth. I was jealous of that little sister of yours, and I did everything in my power to keep her and Valentine Farr apart. Placed in the same position, I should undoubtedly repeat the offense."

Cruel and unwomanly as the words were, there was something in her friend's voice which stirred Helen with a feeling of pity. She rose and laid a gentle hand on Miss Stuart's arm.

"You must not try to make me think badly of you, dear. I would so much rather believe that you did not realize how much misery you were causing. Let us not speak any more of this, Lillian."

A sudden rush of tears dimmed Miss Stuart's eyes.

"The least I can do is to grant your last request, Helen. One thing more I can do for you, dear—I can go. You need never see me again."

There was just a faint interrogation in the low-spoken words, but Helen remained quite silent. She was waging a bitter fight within herself. Everything pressed her into a renunciation of this friendship which had cost her so dear. Slowly there was awakening within her a deep knowledge of Guy Appleton's character, and with this knowledge came a great longing to win from him the love which she had so lightly sacrificed. While a vestige of this friendship remained Guy would never take her to his heart, and now her choice must be made. Then she thought of Jean and Valentine Farr, and the thought strengthened her conviction that only one path was open to her. Raising her tearstained face, she met Lillian's eyes smiling sadly on her.

"So you find it hard to give me up, Helen? Are you sure it is necessary?"

The critical moment had come, and involuntarily Helen put her hands before her eyes to shut out the beautiful face so close to her own:

"Our paths must lie apart, Lillian, dear; but as long as I live I will remember you and pray for you."

The silence that followed these words became oppressive, and Helen stirred uneasily and stole a timid glance at her friend. Miss Stuart's face was uplifted; her wonderful eyes, filled with unutterable sadness, gazed mournfully into space. If suffering can expiate a sin, in that moment she fully expiated the wrong she had done to Jean. After a while she turned and laid her hands on Helen's shoulders.

"I understand, my dear, and I do not blame you. Good-by!" And stooping, she kissed her gently on the lips.

Helen stood before the fire in the hall-way of the manor, two letters in hand, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. In four days Jean and Mrs. Fay would sail for home, and Guy had written: "Will you not send for me, Helen? I will never return until you do."

"Oh, dear," her thoughts ran, "why must it be left for me to decide! If Guy would only take it into his own hands and come, I would be so grateful."

Poor weak little woman! It was hard for her to act for herself. How happy she would be to find shelter in some safe harbor, guided there by a stronger hand than her own. With one stroke of a pen she could recall Guy, but the strangest shyness overmastered her. She wandered restlessly about the house, her heart as heavy as lead; and not until daylight was waning, and the long winter evening closing in upon the manor, did she finally start out for the telegraph office, a bit of paper held closely in the hand that was tucked in her muff.

In a hotel in Paris a party of people was assembled in a small private sitting-room. Against the walls, their lids gaping, were a number of half-filled trunks, and in the paraphernalia that were scattered around was every indication of an imminent departure. Mrs. Fay and Jean bustled busily about, stowing away the many purchases which this city of shops had tempted them to make, stopping now and then to consult Guy as to some detail of the long journey which lay before them. Poor Mrs. Appleton watched them with homesick eyes. She was tired of wandering about in strange lands, hungry for a sight of the little vine-covered cottage which had been empty for so many weary months. Surely no mother had ever given her son a greater love, a more generous sacrifice.

"I am a foolish old woman, my dear," she had said to him a few moments since, when he had looked up suddenly and had seen the tears in her eyes. "I suppose it is not unnatural that I should sometimes dream of spending the last years of my life in 'my own home.'"

Guy did not answer then. It was a shock to him to discover how much this exile had cost his patient, uncomplaining mother; and, as he sat at the little table in the center of the room, apparently absorbed in straightening out accounts, he was facing the duty which had suddenly been made clear to him.

"Poor mother!" he thought, with tender compunction, "I have been a selfish brute."

Yet it was not easy for him to depart from the course he had marked out for himself, for, like many another man of strong character, Guy was very obstinate. One glance at his mother's face, however, made him ashamed of his hesitation, and he pushed away his papers and rose to his feet, while he framed the sentence which would determine their return home. Just at that moment there was a knock at the door, and in response to Jean's brisk, "Entrez," a servant handed her a cablegram in its blue wrapper, addressed "Appleton, Continental, Paris."

Three simple words the message contained, but to the man who read them they made all the difference between light and darkness, between life and death. The message read:

Please come home.—Helen.