“Mother’s waterproof will do,” she said. She wrapped it quickly around her, and they started out. Something in the utter absence of vanity which led a girl at such a moment to wear the most unbecoming thing that she could put hands on, roused a keen throb of admiration in Bayard. Then he remembered, with a pang, the anomaly of the situation. Why should she _wish_ to make herself beautiful to him? What had he done--great heavens! what _could_ he do, to deserve or to justify the innocent coquetries of a beloved and loving woman? Helen pulled the hood of the cloak far over her head. And yet, what a look she had! The severity and simplicity of her appearance added to the gravity of her face a charm which he had never seen before. How womanly, how strong, how rich and ripe a being! He drew her hand through his arm authoritatively. She did not resent this trifling act of mastery. His fingers trembled; his arm shook as she leaned upon it. They struck out upon the meadow path in the dark, and, for a moment, neither spoke. Then he said:-- “I have something to say to you. I shall wait till we have sent the Professor back.” “That will be better,” said Helen, not without embarrassment. They came to the clam study, and he waited outside while she said:-- “Come, Papa! Put the Unforgiven in your pocket, and go back to the fire! Mr. Bayard and I are going to walk.” The Professor meekly obeyed, and Helen locked the door of the fish-house, and put the key in her pocket. “I shall give it to Mr. Salt to-night,” she said. “We start at 7.20. Pepper is going to take us over.” These trivial words staggered Bayard’s self-control. “You always leave--so--early!” he stammered. “Does that make it any worse?” she asked, trying to smile. It was not a very successful smile, and Bayard saw it. They were approaching the electric arc that lighted the entrance to the beach. The cold, light lay white on her face. Its expression startled him. “Everything makes it worse!” he groaned. “It is as bad as it can be!” “I can see how it might have been worse,” said Helen. “That’s more than I can do. What do you mean?” “I would rather not tell you,” replied Helen with gentle dignity. “Tell me what you mean!” He turned about and lifted her averted face; he touched her with the tip of one trembling finger under the chin. “I prefer not to tell you, Mr. Bayard.” She did not flush, nor blush. Her eyes met his steadily. Something in them sent the mad color racing across his face. “Forgive me! I have no right to insist--I forgot--I have none to anything. I have no right to hear--to see--_anything_. God have mercy upon me!” He put out his shaking hand, and gently covered with it her uplifted eyes; veiling from his own gaze the most sacred sight on earth. It was a beautiful act, and so delicately done that Helen felt as if a spirit had touched her.