The year in Lockhaven seemed to have made as little change as a dream. Here she was, back in her old room. How familiar everything looked! Her little white bed; the old cherry-wood dressing-case, with its shining brass rings and spotless linen cover; the morning sunshine dancing with the shadows of the leaves, and falling in a golden square upon the floor; the curtains at the south window blowing softly to and fro in the fresh wind, and the flutter of wings outside in the climbing roses; even the bunch of white lilacs on the little table, apparently all just as she had left them nearly a year ago. Lockhaven and theology were behind her, and yet in some indefinable way she was a stranger in a strange land. The consciousness of a difference had come the night before, when Lois poured out her fears and griefs to her cousin (all except her promise to Mrs. Forsythe) as soon as they were alone. Lois felt no difference. Helen had been away for a long time, but she was still the same Helen to her; strong, and true, and gentle, with perhaps a little more gravity in her eyes, but Lois was so grave herself she did not notice that. Whereas with Helen there was a dual life: the one, absorbing, passionate, and intense; the other, a memory; a tender, beautiful past, no longer a necessity. Helen's joys had come between her and this once dear home life, and even while Lois was telling her of her cruel anxiety, and Helen was listening with a face full of sympathy, her thoughts were following John on his lonely walk back from prayer-meeting, and greeting him in the doorway of the empty house. Of course the consciousness of the difference and the strangeness wore off in a few days; perhaps if Ashurst had been its usual quiet self, it would have lasted longer, but there was so much to do, and so little appreciation of change in the mind of any one else, she almost forgot to notice it herself, but only knew that all the time, under all her sympathy with Ashurst joys and sorrows,--mostly sorrows, now,--was a deep, still current of thought flowing towards her husband. Mrs. Dale had been the first one to come in, in the morning. They had scarcely finished breakfast when they heard her decided voice in the hall, reproving Sally for some careless sweeping. A little while ago, Lois would have resented this as interference; but she had too many real troubles now to take Mrs. Dale's meddling to heart. "Well, Helen, my dear," she said, "I'm glad to see you." Mrs. Dale turned her cheek to her niece, under the impression that she was kissing her. "It is high time for you to be home again. You must keep this foolish child in order; she hardly eats or sleeps. I suppose you've sent to know how Arabella Forsythe is to-day, Lois?" Lois looked anxious. "I thought she really was better last night, but she sent word this morning there was no change."