Mark was in no haste to retire, and when Uncle Ephraim offered to conduct him to his room, he frankly answered that he was not sleepy, adding, as he turned to Helen: "Please let me stay until Miss Lennox finishes her socks. There are several pairs yet undarned. I will not detain you, though," he continued, bowing to Uncle Ephraim, who, a little uncertain what to do, finally departed, as did Aunt Hannah and his sister, leaving Helen and her mother to entertain Mark Ray. It had been Mrs. Lennox's first intention to retire also, but a look from Helen detained her, and she sat down by that basket of socks, while Mark wished her away. Still it was proper for her to remain, he knew, and he respected Helen for keeping her, as he knew she did. A while they talked of Katy and New York, Mark laboring to convince Helen that its people were not all heartless and fickle, and at last citing his mother as an instance. "You would like mother, Miss Lennox. I hope you will know her some time," he said, and then they talked of books, Helen forgetting that Mark was city bred in the interest with which she listened to him, while Mark forgot that the girl who appreciated and understood his views almost before they were expressed was country born, and sitting there before him clad in homely garb, with no ornaments save those of her fine mind and the sparkling face turned so fully toward him. "Mark Ray is not like Wilford Cameron," Helen said to herself, when as the clock was striking eleven she bade him good-night and went up to her room. "But of course in his heart he feels above us all," and opening her window she leaned her hot cheek against the wet casement, and looked out upon the night, now so beautiful and clear, for the rain was over, and up in the heavens the bright stars were shining, each one bearing some resemblance to Mark's eyes as they kindled and grew bright with his excitement, resting always kindly on her--on Helen, who, leaning thus from the window, felt stealing over her that feeling which, once born, can never be quite forgotten. Helen did not recognize the feeling, for it was a strange one to her. She was only conscious of a sensation half pleasurable, half sad, of which Mark Ray had been the cause, and which she tried in vain to put aside, wondering what he thought of them all, and if he did not secretly despise them even while making himself so familiar. And then there swept over her a feeling of desolation such as she had never experienced before, a shrinking from living all her life in Silverton, as she fully expected to do, and laying her head upon the little stand, she cried passionately. "This is weak, this is folly," she suddenly exclaimed, as she became conscious of acting as Helen Lennox was not wont to act, and with a strong effort of the will she dried her tears and crept quietly to bed just as Mark was falling into his first sleep, and dreaming of smothering.