Helen had her rich, warm look. She appeared taller than usual, and seemed to stand more steadily on her feet than other women. “Do you want me to thank you?” asked Bayard in a low voice. “No,” said Helen. “I must go,” he said abruptly. “Mother will be back,” observed Helen, not at her ease. “And Father will be getting on with the Unforgiven, and come home any minute.” “Very well,” replied Bayard, seating himself. “Not that I would keep you!” suggested Helen suddenly. He smiled a little sadly, and this time unexpectedly rose again. “I don’t expect you to understand, of course. But I really ought to go. And I am going.” “Very well,” said Helen stiffly, in her turn. “I have a--something to write, you see,” explained Bayard. “You don’t call it a sermon any more, do you? Heresy writes a ‘something.’ How delicious! Do go and write it, by all means. I hope the Unforgiven will appreciate it.” “You are not a dull woman,” observed Bayard uncomfortably. “You don’t for an instant suppose I _want_ to go?” Helen raised her thick, white eyelids slowly; a narrow, guarded light shone underneath them. She only answered that she supposed nothing about it. “If I stay,” suggested Bayard, with a wavering look, “will you sing The Serenade to me--all over again?” “Not one bar of it!” replied Helen promptly. “You are the wiser of us two,” said Bayard after a pause. The tide was coming in, and gained upon the reef just outside the cottage windows, with a soft, inexorable sound. “I am not a free man,” he added. “Return to your chains and your cell,” suggested Helen. “It is--as you say--the better way.” “I said nothing of the kind! Pardon me.” “Didn’t you? It does not signify. It doesn’t often signify what people _say_--do you think?” “Are you coming to see my people--the work? You said you would, you know. Shall I call and take you, some day?” “Do you think it matters--to the drunkards?” “Oh, well,” said Bayard, looking disappointed, “never mind.” “But I do mind,” returned Helen, in her full, boylike voice. “I want to come. And I’m coming. I had rather come, though, than be taken. I’ll turn up some day in the anxious seat when you don’t expect me. I’ll wear a veil, and an old poke bonnet--yes, and a blanket shawl--and confess. I defy you to find me out!” “Miss Carruth,” said the young preacher with imperiousness, “my work is not a parlor charade.” Helen looked at him. Defiance and deference battled in her brown eyes; for that instant, possibly, she could have hated or loved him with equal ease; she felt his spiritual superiority to herself as something midway between an antagonism and an attraction, but exasperating whichever way she looked at it. She struggled with herself, but made no reply. “If I am honored with your presence,” continued Bayard, still with some decision of manner, “I shall count upon your sympathy.... God knows I need it!” he added in a different tone. “And you shall have it,” said Helen softly.