Mr. Harrison, who was standing by the window, turned when he heard her; she answered his greeting kindly, and then sat down and remained very still for a moment or two, gazing at her hands in her lap. At last she raised her eyes to him, and asked: “Mr. Harrison, did you receive the letter I wrote you?” “Yes,” the other answered quickly, “I did. I cannot tell you how much pain it caused me. And, Helen--or must I call you Miss Davis?” “You may call me Helen,” said the girl simply. “I was very sorry to cause you pain,” she added, “but there was nothing else that I could do.” “At least,” the other responded, “I hope that you will not refuse to explain to me why this step is necessary?” “No, Mr. Harrison,” said Helen, “it is right that I should tell you all, no matter how hard it is to me to do it. It is all because of a great wrong that I have done; I know that when I have told you, you will think very badly of me indeed, but I have no right to do anything except to speak the truth.” She said that in a very low voice, not allowing her eyes to drop, and wearing upon her face the look of sadness which seemed now to belong to it always. Mr. Harrison gazed at her anxiously, and said: “You seem to have been ill, Helen.” “I have been very unhappy, Mr. Harrison,” she answered, “and I do not believe I can ever be otherwise again. Did you not notice that I was unhappy?” “I never thought of it until yesterday,” the other replied. “Until the drive,” said Helen; “that was the climax of it. I must tell you the reason why I was so frightened then,--that I have a friend who was as dear to me as if he were my brother, and he loved me very much, very much more than I deserve to be loved by anyone; and when I was engaged to you he was very ill, and because I knew I was doing so wrong I did not dare to go and see him. That was why I was afraid to pass through Hilltown. The reason I was so frightened afterwards is that I caught a glimpse of him, and he was in such a dreadful way. This morning I found that he had left his home and gone away, no one knows where, so that I fear I shall never see him again.” Helen paused, and the other, who had sat down and was leaning forward anxiously, asked her, “Then it is this friend that you love?” “No,” the girl replied, “it is not that; I do not love anybody.” “But then I do not understand,” went on Mr. Harrison, with a puzzled look. “You spoke of its having been so wrong; was it not your right to wish to marry me?” And Helen, punishing herself as she had learned so bravely to do, did not lower her eyes even then; she flushed somewhat, however, as she answered: “Mr. Harrison, do you know WHY I wished to marry you?” The other started a trifle, and looked very much at a loss indeed. “Why?” he echoed. “No, I do not know--that is--I never thought--”