"Helen," her husband said, in a voice she scarcely knew, "I want to be alone. I am not ill, but I must be--undisturbed. Will you go away, please?" "Let me in just one moment, darling," she pleaded, still nervously turning the knob. "I won't disturb you, but it terrifies me to be shut out in this way. Please let me just see you, and then I will go right away." "No," he answered, "I cannot see you. I do not want to see you, Helen. I must be alone just now." "You are sure you are not ill?" she insisted. "Quite sure." "Well," she said reluctantly, "I'll go, but call me just as soon as I can come, will you?" "Yes," he answered, "but do not come until I do call you." She heard him walk back to his study table, and then silence seemed to fall like a shadow on her heart. She was more bewildered than before. John was in trouble, and she could not help him. Nevertheless, she did not speak again; she was one of those unusual women who are content to wait until the moment it is needed, to give their sympathy or tenderness. So she went to her own room, and sat wistfully looking out at the sweet spring day; she could not read while this anxiety filled her mind, and her hands were idle in her lap. She did not even summon John to luncheon, knowing he would come if he saw fit; for herself, she could not eat. It was almost five, when she heard John push his chair back (she was sitting on the lowest step of the staircase, which ended at the study door, leaning her head against the frame), and again her ear caught the heavy, long-drawn sigh. Her suspense was to end. She rose, her hands pressed hard together to check their trembling; she bit her lip lest she might speak and disturb him one moment before he was ready to hear her. He pushed back the bolt, and slowly opened the door and looked at her. All the words of love and anxiety died on her lips. "John," she whispered,--"oh, my dear, what is it?" He came out, and, putting his hands on her shoulders, looked down at her with terrible, unsmiling eyes. "Helen," he said, "I am grieved to have distressed you so, but it had to be. I had to be alone. I am in much trouble. No," laying his hand gently on her lips; "listen to me, dearest. I am in great distress of soul; and just now, just for a few days, I must bear it alone." Helen felt a momentary sense of relief. Distress of soul?--that meant some spiritual anxiety, and it had not the awfulness to her which a more tangible trouble, such as sickness, would have. "What is it, John? Tell me," she said, looking at him with overflowing love, but without an understanding sympathy; it was more that feeling which belongs to strong women, of maternal tenderness for the men they love, quite apart from an intellectual appreciation of their trouble. John shook his head. "I must bear it alone, Helen. Do not ask me what it is; I cannot tell you yet." "You cannot tell me? Oh, John, your sorrow belongs to me; don't shut me out; tell me, dear, and let me help you."