“You see I have been out of it so long!” pleaded Bayard. “Not yet a year,” corrected Helen. “It seems to me twenty,” he mused. “You don’t go to see your uncle, yet?” “I met him once or twice down town. I have not been home, yet. But that would make no difference. I have no leisure for--all these little things.” He said the words with such an utter absence of affectation that it was impossible either to smile or to take offence at them. Helen regarded him gravely. “There were two or three superb concerts this winter. I thought of you. I wished you had come in”-- “Did you take that trouble?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t think I ever heard Schubert played better in my life,” she went on, without noticing the interruption. “Schoeffelowski does do The Serenade divinely.” “I used to care for that more than for any other music in the world, I think,” he answered slowly. “I play poorly,” said Helen, “and I sing worse, and the piano is rented of a Windover schoolgirl. But I have got some of his renderings by heart--if you would care for it.” “It is plain,” replied Bayard, flushing, “that I no longer move in good society. It did not even occur to me to ask you. I should enjoy it--it would rest me more than anything I can think of. Not that that matters, of course--but I should be more grateful than it is possible for you to understand.” Helen went to the piano without ado, and began to sing the great serenade. She played with feeling, and had a sweet, not a strong voice; it had the usual amateur culture, no more, but it had a quality not so usual. She sang with a certain sumptuous delicacy (if the words may be conjoined) by which Bayard found himself unexpectedly moved. He sat with his hand over his eyes, and she sang quite through. “Komm beglücke mich? Komm beglücke mich!” Her voice sank, and ceased. What tenderness! What strength! What vigor and hope and joy, and--forbid the thought!--what power of loving, the woman had! “Some lucky fellow will know, some day,” thought the devotee. Aloud, he said nothing at all. Helen’s hands lay on the keys; she, too, sat silent. It was beginning to grow dark in the cottage parlor. The long, lace curtain blew straight in, and towards her; as it dropped, it fell about her head and shoulders, and caught there; it hung like a veil; in the dim light it looked like-- She started to her feet and tossed it away. “Oh!” he breathed, “why not let it stay? Just for a minute! It did nobody any harm.” “I am not so sure of that,” thought Helen. But what she said, was,-- “I will light the candles.” He sprang to help her; the sleeve of her muslin dress fell away from her arm as she lifted the little flicker of the match to the tall brass candlestick on the mantel. He took the match from her, and touched the candle. In the dusk they looked at each other with a kind of fear. Bayard was very pale.