“He writes to me,” said Bayard. “He sent me things when I was sick. He was very kind then. We have not quarreled at all. But it is some time since I have seen him. I am very fond of my uncle. He is an old man, you know. He was brought up so--We mustn’t blame him. He thinks I am on the road to perdition. He doesn’t come to Windover.” “I see,” said Helen. She leaned her head back against the boulder and looked through half-shut lids at the dashing sea. The wind was rising. “I must go,” she said abruptly. “May I take you over to the station?” he asked with boyish anxiety. “Mr. Salt is going to harness old Pepper,” she answered. Bayard said nothing. He remembered that he could not afford to drive a lady to the station; he could not offer to “take” her in the electric conveyance of the great American people. He might have spent at least three quarters of an hour more beside her. It seemed to him that he had not experienced poverty till now. The exquisite outline of his lip trembled for the instant with that pathos which would have smitten a woman to the heart if she had loved him. Helen was preoccupied with her saxifrage and her purple gloves. She did not, to all appearance, see his face at all, and he was glad of it. He arose in silence, and walked beside her to the beach and towards the town. “Mr. Bayard,” said Helen, with her pleasant unexpectedness, “I owe you something.” All this while she had not mentioned the wreck or the rescue; she alone, of all people whom he had seen since he came out of his sick-room, had not inquired, nor exclaimed, nor commended, nor admired. Something in her manner--it could hardly be said what--reminded him now of this omission; he had not thought of it before. “I owe you a recognition,” she said. “I cancel the debt,” he answered, smiling. “You cannot. I owe you the recognition--of a friend--for that brave and noble deed you did. Accept it, sir!” She spread out her hands with a pretty gesture, as if she gave him something; she moved her head with a commanding and royal turn, as if her gift had value. He lifted his hat. “I could have done no less then; but I might do more--now.” His worn face had lightened delicately. He looked hopeful and happy. “A man doesn’t put himself where I am, to complain,” he added. “But I don’t suppose you could even guess how solitary my position is. The right thing said in the right way gives me more courage than--people who say it can possibly understand. I have so few friends--now. If you allow me to count you among them, you do me a very womanly kindness; so then I shall owe _you_”-- “I cancel the debt!” she interrupted, laughing. “Didn’t Father write to you?” she hurried on, “when you were so ill?” “Oh, yes. The Professor’s note was the first I was allowed to read. He said all sorts of things that I didn’t deserve. He said that in spite of the flaws in my theology I had done honor to the old Seminary.”