“When my manuscript on the New Version is completed, I shall take pleasure in doing so,” replied the Professor politely; “but the point _now_ is, just what, and how much do you fear from the state of things to which you refer? Helen is a level-headed girl. I take it for granted that she has not wrought herself into a hysterical fright without basis. I have acted on my knowledge of my daughter’s nature. I understand _that_, if I am uninstructed in the temperance agitation.” “Helen has not been misinformed, nor has she overestimated anything,” returned Bayard quietly. “Is it a mob you fear?” “Possibly; but probably nothing of the kind. My chief danger is one from which it is impossible to escape.” “And that is?”-- “Something underhanded. There is a personal element in it.” Bayard rose, as if he would bring the conversation to a check. “There is nothing to be done,” he said, “nothing whatever. Everything shall go on, precisely as it is arranged. I shall not run from them.” “You do not think wise to defer the dedication--for a time?” “Not an hour! The dedication will take place a week from Sunday.” The Professor was silent. He found it a little difficult to follow the working of this young man’s mind. “And yet,” he suggested anxiously, “after the marriage--to-morrow--you will take the temporary absence, the little vacation which your friends advise? You will not think better of that, I hope, for Helen’s sake?” “I shall leave Windover for a week, for Helen’s sake,” replied Bayard gravely. In his heart he thought that it would make but little difference; but she should have it to remember that everything had been done. He would not be foolhardy or obstinate. The sacred rights of the wife over the man had set in upon his life She should be gratified and comforted in every way left to the power of that love and tenderness which God has set in the soul abreast of duty and honor. He would give the agitation in Angel Alley time to cool, if cool it could. He would give himself--oh, he would give himself-- Helen, in the next room, sat waiting for him. She ran her fingers over the keys of the piano; her foot was on the soft pedal; she sang beneath her breath,-- “Komm beglücke mich? ... Beglücke mich!” Bayard sought her in a great silence. He lifted her tender face, and looked down upon it with that quiver on the lower part of his own which she knew so well; which always meant emotion that he did not share with her. She did not trouble him to try to have it otherwise. She clung to him, and they clasped more solemnly than passionately. Around the bridegroom’s look in Bayard’s face, the magic circle of the seer’s loneliness was faintly drawn. If God and love had collided--but, thank God! He and Love were one. “Lord, I have groped after Thee, and to know Thy will, and to do it if I could. I never expected to be happy. Dost Thou mean this draught of human joy for _me_?”