any one was stirring--she took it as confirmation of her theory, and was now quite sure. She would tell all the house, she said to herself. She began by telling Heathcote. They were strolling in the garden. She turned toward the little arbor at the end of the path. "Not there," said Heathcote. "Why not? Have you been there so much with Rachel?" said his companion, in a sweet voice. "Never, I think. But arbors are damp holes." "Nevertheless, I am going there, and you are going with me." "As you please." "Ward, how much have you been with Rachel?" she asked, when they were seated in the little bower, which was overgrown with the old-fashioned vine called matrimony. "Oh!" said Heathcote, with a sound of fatigue in his voice. "Are we never to have an end to that subject?" "Yes; when you _make_ an end." "One likes to amuse one's self. You do." "Whom do you mean now?" said Helen, diverted from her questions for the moment, as he intended she should be. To tell the truth, Heathcote did not mean any one; but he never hesitated. So now he answered, promptly, "Dexter." He had long ago discovered that he could make any woman believe he was jealous of any man, no matter whom, even one to whom she had never spoken; it presupposed that the other man had been all the time a silent admirer, and on this point the grasp of the feminine imagination is wide and hopeful. "How like you that is! Mr. Dexter is nothing to me." "You have been out driving with him already," said Heathcote, pursuing his advantage; "and you have not been out with me." "He has gone; so we need not quarrel about him." "When did he go?" "Early this morning. And to show you how unjust you are, he went because last evening Anne Douglas refused him." "Then he was refused twice in one day," said Heathcote. "Mrs. Bannert refused him at six." "How do you know?" "She told me." "Traitorous creature!" "Oh no; she is an especial--I may say confidential--friend of mine." "Then what am I?" "Not a friend at all, I hope," said the man beside her. "Something more." He was pulling a spray of vine to pieces, and did not look up; but Helen was satisfied, and smiled to herself brightly. She now went back to Anne. "Did you know poor Anne was gone too, Ward?" "Gone!" said Heathcote, starting. Then he controlled himself. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean that Miss Vanhorn cruelly sent her away this afternoon without warning, and with only a little money; Bessmer was not even allowed to inquire what she intended to do, or where she was going. I have been haunted ever since I heard it by visions of the poor child arriving in New York all alone, and perhaps losing her way: she only knew that one up-town locality near Moreau's." "Do you mean to say that no one knows where she has gone?"