“There’s only one thing”—Bella spoke in a whisper—“just think a moment; all those hundreds of miles with a dog team over the ice, in an arctic winter. If anybody else had done such a thing we should never have heard the last of it. The world wouldn’t be long in having another book on heroism in high latitudes. But we all know _that_ man”—she moved her head in the direction of the voice—“we’ll never hear of it again. He’s done that gigantic journey just for you,”—Hildegarde disengaged herself—“and to be with you again. And here you are planning to go away. It isn’t my business, but I think you’ll be making a terrible mistake, Hildegarde, if you—” Her friend turned from her with unusual abruptness. “He’s nicer than ever,” Bella persisted. “He’s charming. I always said so.” “And I always said”—Hildegarde stopped and looked at Bella with an odd intentness. “You’re a nicer girl than you used to be.” “Thank you,” said the other, smiling faintly, but she saw that she had failed. “And I don’t mean because you’re willing to help me in this.” “What do you mean?” “There’d be only one thing that could prevent my letting you lend me the money.” “Well, you certainly needn’t worry about paying it back.” “It would take two or three years, but that could be managed now that Trenn and Harry want to give me an allowance. It isn’t that.” Bella waited wondering. “It is that I couldn’t take a great, great help from you, and go so far away, carrying anything in my heart that—that I’d kept hid—anything that concerned you.” A quick fear leapt into Bella’s face. “For one mightn’t come back, you know,” the other added. “There’s only one thing we’ve never straightened out,” said Bella, “and that’s _my_ tangle.” “I have my share in the thing, I mean. But as I said, you couldn’t do now—what you did—when you were little.” “Oh!” Bella drew a sharp breath of relief. “When I was little I know I was a beast.” “You told Louis Cheviot about the altar, and the patron saint; about—” “Yes,” said Bella hastily. “It was pretty mean of me, but I was only twelve.” “It wasn’t only when you were twelve.” Gratitude, common prudence, should have bridled Hildegarde’s tongue, but there was something of the judgment day about this hour. Hearts must needs be opened and secrets known. “It was after,” she went on, driven by this new necessity to leave nothing hidden if she was to take Bella’s help, “it was six years after—when you were eighteen. You had gone away knowing quite well how—how I was feeling about—You knew how I was feeling. Yet you could write pretty heartlessly, considering all things. That gay letter about your engagement. You could write with that insincere air of expecting me to be as happy as you were.” “You surely see it would have been unpardonable of me to have sympathized with you. I _had_ to assume you didn’t care. You would have done the same.” “No, I wouldn’t.”