Helen Warren, after her impulsive leaning towards her first sweetheart that night in the garden, had permitted herself to undergo the keenest suffering which was due to her strangely unsettled mind. Was she strictly honest? she asked herself. She had openly encouraged a good man to hope that she would finally become his wife, and the letters she was receiving from him daily were of the tenderest, most appealing nature, showing that Sanders' love for her and faith in her fair dealing were too deeply grounded to be easily uprooted. Besides, as he perhaps had the right to do, the Augusta man had spoken of his hopes to his mother and sister, and those sympathetic ladies had written Helen adroit letters which all but plainly alluded to the “understanding” as being the forerunner of a most welcome family event. Many times had the poor girl seated herself to respond to these communications, and found herself absolutely unequal to the performance in the delicate spirit that the occasion demanded. The window of her room, at which her writing-desk stood, looked out over the garden at Dwight's, and the very spot where she had left Carson that memorable night was in open view. How could she throw herself into anything, yes _anything_ pertaining to her compact with Sanders while the ever-present thrill and ecstasy of that moment was permeating her? What had it really meant--that ecstatic yearning to kiss the lips so close to hers, the lips which had quivered in dumb adoration and despair as he strove to keep from her ken the suffering he had undergone in her service?