“You may go now, Robert, and—and, go on as you have begun.” She pushed him toward the door. “You say the geyser is playing?” “Was playing.” “Well, we must all see it the next time. Good-by, dear.” Closing the door behind him, the lady returned to her mirror and gave her hair some touches. Then she started again to the door with intent to seek her “companion.” As she reached it, she was met by a knock. She opened and came face to face with the object of her thoughts. “Come in, come in, Miss Maynard,” she said, and there was a noticeable cordiality in her voice. The trim girl, with her symmetrical little face and smooth brown hair, stepped just inside the door. “I came to see if you wished to change your gown before tea.” “I am not going to change it to-day. Come in. I wished to see you. Mr. Derwent has been telling me of your good fortune. I wish to congratulate you.” There was no elation or change of manner in the quiet girl as she replied:— “Thank you. Mr. Derwent has done fine work for me. You don’t wish my help, then?” Mrs. Nixon hesitated. She knew that yesterday she would have said no, and closed the door, and she knew that Helen Maynard knew it; so though she desired to beg her to be seated for a chat, she indulged in no such stupidity. “Did you see the geyser play?” she asked. “The Old Faithful?” “No.” Helen Maynard had indeed been in her own room, careless of scenery, absorbed in the considerations that had held her captive since Mr. Derwent had shown his telegram. “My son says it has just played. Let us not miss the next show.” “Do you wish me to come for you?” The question was put in precisely the same tone and manner that Helen would have used yesterday, and Mrs. Nixon admired her poise. “Thank you. I am going down into the office. I shall be glad to see the geyser with you when the time comes.” Helen Maynard turned away, and a cynical little smile grew on her lips. Mrs. Nixon had tried nobly to keep her usual manner unchanged; but despite herself there was a warmth there unknown before, and Helen was alert to perceive it. The girl hummed an air from “Faust” as she ran down the stairs of the gigantic log-cabin. It was the “Calf of Gold” that she sang. She was, as Mr. Derwent had said, a very level-headed young woman, and under the present circumstances kept her joyous excitement under control; but she was alive in every fibre to the change in her life which these six figures to her credit were about to make. She had faced all that failure would mean; faced the prospect of a narrow life on the farm, or a struggling life in the city. In either case a life of early-to-bed and early-to-rise routine, against which all her tastes rebelled.