“This is indeed home!” he exclaimed, as he sat by M. de Bergerac’s hearth, and heard the carol-singers in the garden. “It is more than thirty years since Christmas was kept at the great house yonder. I wonder whether it will ever be kept there again within my life?” “Why not?” asked his old friend; “you are young enough to marry again.” “Do you think so, Theodore?” inquired Mr. Jerningham, earnestly. “Do I think so? Who should think so more than I? Was there ever a happier marriage than mine? And I do not ask you to make so bold a venture as I made in marrying a dear girl twenty years my junior. There are handsome and distinguished widows enough in your English society; women who, in the prime of middle age, retain the fresh beauty of their youth, with all the added graces given by experience of life.” “Thanks,” said Mr. Jerningham, coldly; “I should not care to entrust the remnant of my life to a middle-aged person, however well preserved. I can exist without a wife. If ever I marry again, I shall marry for love.” He stole a glance at Helen. She was sitting by the fire, with an open book upon her lap, her eyes fixed dreamily. Where her wandering thoughts might be Harold Jerningham knew not; but he perceived they were not given to him. “Has the hour gone by?” he asked himself. “Has my hour gone for ever?” “Nobly spoken, my friend,” said Theodore; “you will marry for love. And why not? God gave me a fair young bride, and seven years of happiness more complete than a man dare hope for on earth.” No more was said upon a subject so delicate. But from this conversation Mr. Jerningham derived considerable comfort; for he perceived that his old friend found no incongruity in the idea of his seeking something more than a marriage of convenience in a second union. After this he came to the cottage with something akin to hope in his breast. Helen received him always with the same sweetness. He was her father’s friend, and had been her father’s protector in the hour of evil fortune. This fact was ever present to her mind; it imparted to her manner a sweetness which was fatal to Harold Jerningham. Theodore de Bergerac watched the two together; and one day, as if by inspiration, the secret of his old friend’s frequent visits flashed upon him. The danger that had existed for the young secretary existed also for the weary worldling, and girlish sweetness and simplicity had won a heart sated with life’s factitious joys. Within a week after the student achieved this brilliant discovery, Harold Jerningham made a full confession of his weakness.