Helen rose like a mechanical thing, and with dragging feet went up the stairs to her room. Before her open window--the window looking out upon the Dwight lawn and garden--she sat in the still darkness, now praying that Carson might appear as he sometimes did. If she saw him, should she go to him? Yes, for the pain, the cold clutch on her heart of the discovery was like the throes of death. She told herself that she had been the primal cause of this as of all his suffering. In the blind desire to oblige her, he had wrecked his every hope. He had lost all and yet was uncomplaining. Indeed, he was trying to hide his misfortune, bearing it alone, like the man he was. She heard her father closing the library windows to prepare for bed. His steps rang hollowly as he came out into the hall below and called up to her: “Daughter, are you asleep?” A reply hung in her dry throat. She feared to trust her voice to utterance. She heard the Major mutter, as if to himself, “Well, good-night, daughter,” and then his footsteps died out. Again she was alone with her grim discovery. The town clock had just struck ten when she saw the red coal of a cigar on the Dwight lawn quite near the gate leading into her father's grounds. It was he. She knew it by the fitful flaring of the cigar. Noiselessly she glided down the stairs, softly she turned the big brass key in the massive lock and went out and sped, light of foot, across the dewy grass. As she approached him Dwight was standing with his back to her, his arms folded. “Carson!” she called, huskily, and he turned with a start and a stare of wonder through the gloom. “Oh,” he said, “it's you,” and doffing his hat he came through the gateway and stood by her. “It's time, young lady, that you were asleep, isn't it?” She saw through his effort at lightness of manner. “I noticed your cigar and wanted to speak to you,” she said, in a voice that sounded tense and even harsh. It rose almost in a squeak and died in her tight throat. Something in his wan face and shifting eyes, noticeable even in the darkness, confirmed her in the conviction that she had divined his secret. “You wanted to see me,” he said; “I've had so many things to think about lately, in this beastly political business, you know, that I'm sadly behind in my social duties.” “I--I've been thinking about you all evening,” she said, lamely. “Somehow, I felt as if I simply must see you and talk to you.” “How good of you!” he cried. “I don't deserve it, though--at such a time, anyway. It is generally conceded that it is a woman's duty, placed as you are, to think of only one thing and one individual. In this case the man is the luckiest one in God's universe. He's well-to-do, has scores of admiring, influential friends, and is to marry the grandest, sweetest woman on earth. If that isn't enough to make a man happy, why--” “Stop; don't speak that way!” Helen commanded. “I can't stand it. I simply can't stand it, Carson!”