Helen made no reply. Was it possible that she dared not trust herself, at that moment, to articulate? Her silence seemed to the tortured man more cruel than the bitterest word which ever fell from the lip of a proud and injured woman. Now again the camera of his whirling brain took instantaneous negatives. He saw himself doing what other men had done before him: abandoning a doubtful experiment of the conscience to win a woman’s love. He saw himself chopping the treadmill of his unpopular, unsuccessful work to chips; a few strong blows would do it; the discouraged people would merge themselves in the respectable churches; the ripples that he had raised in the fishing-town would close over, and his submerged work would sink to the bottom and leave no sign. A few reformed drunkards would go on a spree; a few fishermen would feel neglected for awhile: the scarlet and white fires of the Church of the Love of Christ would go out on Angel Alley. In a year Windover would be what Windover was. The eye of the great Christ would gaze no more upon him through the veil of coarse gauze; while he--free--a new man--with life before him, like other men, and the right to love--like any other man-- “_That_,” he said solemnly, as if he had spoken aloud, “is impossible. There could be only that one way. I cannot take it.” “No,” she said, lifting her head, as if he had explained it all to her; “no. You could never do _that_. I would not have you do that for--for all that could happen--for--” she faltered. “Great God!” thought Bayard, “and I cannot even _ask_ her how much she cares--if she could ever learn or try to love me.” He felt suddenly a strange weakness. He leaned against a boulder for support, coughing painfully. It seemed to him as if he were inwardly bleeding to death. “Oh!” cried Helen, turning about swiftly and showing her own white face. “You are not well--you suffer. This will not--must not--I cannot bear it!” she said bravely, but with a quivering lip. “Give me your arm, Mr. Bayard, and let us get home.” He obeyed her in silence. He felt, in truth, too spent to speak. They got back to the door of the cottage, and Helen led him in. Her father was not in the parlor, and her mother had gone to bed. The fire had fallen to embers. Helen motioned him to an easy-chair, and knelt, coaxing the blaze, and throwing on pine wood to start it. She looked so womanly, so gentle, so home-like, and love-like, on her knees in the firelight there, caring for the comfort of the exhausted man, that the sight was more than he could bear. He covered his eyes. “The fire flares so, coming in from the dark,” he said. She stepped softly about, and brought him wine and crackers, but he shook his head. “My little tea-urn is packed,” she said, smiling, trying to look as if nothing had happened. “I would have made you such a cup of tea as you never tasted!” “Spare me!” he pleaded. “Don’t you suppose I know that?”