“I mean, when you had taken me up the Seminary walk to see the cross. When you said good-by that night, I thought I’d mention it. But I changed my mind. You see, you hadn’t had your call, then. I thought--I might--hurt your feelings. But we always _do_ come to Windover. We are coming as soon as Anniversary is over. We have the Flying Jib to ourselves--that little green cottage, you know, on the rocks. What! Never heard of the Flying Jib? You don’t know the summer Windover, do you?” “Only the winter Windover, you see.” “Nor the summer people, I suppose?” “Only the winter people.” “Father’s hired that old fish-house for a study,” continued Helen with some abruptness. “He says he can’t stand the women on the Mainsail piazzas; you can hear them over at the Flying Jib when the wind sets our way; they discuss the desserts, and pick each other’s characters to pieces, and compare Kensington stitches, and neuralgia. Father is going to bring down his article on ‘The State of the Unforgiven after Death’--There!” she said suddenly, “that Millet sketch is walking into father’s study with his basket on his back. The State of the Unforgiven will be a little--clammy, don’t you think?” Her eyes rippled like the bed of a brown brook in the sun. Bayard laughed. “The dear Professor!” he said. “If father weren’t such an archangel in private life, it wouldn’t be so funny,” observed Helen, jabbing the point of her purple-and-gold changeable silk sun-umbrella into the sand; “I can’t see what he wants the unconverted to be burned up _for_. Can you?” “The State of the Unforgiven before Death is more than I can manage,” replied Bayard, smiling; “I have my hands full.” “Do you like it?” asked Helen, with a pretty, puzzled knot between her smooth brows. “Like what? I like this.” He looked at her; as any other man might--like those students who used to come so often, and who suddenly called no more. Helen had never seen that expression in his eyes. She dropped her own. She dug little wells in the fine, white sand with her sun-umbrella before she said,-- “I have to get the six o’clock train; you know I haven’t come to stay, yet.” “But you are coming!” he exclaimed with irrepressible joyousness. She made no answer, and Bayard’s sensitive color changed. “Do I like _what_?” he repeated in a different tone. “Heresy and martyrdom,” said Helen serenely. “I regret nothing, if that is what you mean; no matter what it costs; no matter how it ends--no, not for an hour. I told the truth, and I took the consequences; that is all. How _can_ a man regret standing by his best convictions?” “He might regret the convictions,” suggested Helen. “Might he? Perhaps. Mine are so much stronger than they were when I started in, that they race me and drag me like winged horses in a chariot of fire.”