He stared at her inquiringly for a moment, as she stood with her face averted, and then he heaved a big sigh as he gently, almost reverently, touched her sleeve to direct her glance upon himself. “What is it, Helen?” he said, softly, a wealth of tenderness in his shaking voice. “What's gone wrong? Don't tell me _you_ are unhappy. Things have gone crooked with me of late--I--I mean that my father has been displeased, till quite recently at least, and I have not been in the best mood; but I have been sustained by the thought that you, at least, were happy. If I thought you were not, I don't know what I would do.” “How can I be happy when you--when you--” Her voice dwindled away into nothingness, and she could only face him with all her agony and despair burning in her great, melting eyes. “When I what, Helen?” he asked, gropingly. “Surely you are not troubled about _me_, now that my political horizon is so bright that my opponent can't look at it without smoked glasses. Oh, I'm all right. Ask Garner--ask your father--ask Braider--ask anybody.” “I was not thinking of your _election_,” she found voice, to say. “Oh, Carson, _do_ have faith in me! I crave it; I long for it; I yearn for it. I want to help you. I want to stand by you and suffer with you. You can trust me. You tried me once--you remember--and I stood the test. Before God, I'll never breathe it to a soul. Oh”--stopping him by raising her despairing hand--“don't try to deceive me because I'm a girl. The uncertainty is killing me. I'll not close my eyes to-night. The truth will be easier borne because I'll be bearing it--_with you_.” “Oh, Helen, can it be possible that you--” He had spoken impulsively and essayed to check himself, but now, pale as a corpse, he stood before her not knowing what to do or say. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then with a helpless shrug of his shoulders he lapsed into silence, a droop of utter despondency upon him. She was now sure she was right, and a shaft she had never met before entered her heart and remained there--remained there to strengthen her, good woman that she was, as such things have strengthened women of all periods. She laid her firm hand upon his arm in a pressure meant to comfort him, and with the purity of a sorrowing angel she said: “I know the truth, dear Carson, and if you don't show me a way to get you out from under it--you who did it all for my sake--if you don't I shall die. I can't stand it.” He stood convicted before her. With bowed head he remained silent for a moment, then he said, almost with a groan: “To think, on top of it all, that you must know--_you!_ I was bearing it all right, but now you--you poor, gentle, delicate girl--you have to be dragged into this as you have been dragged into every miserable thing that ever happened to me. It began with your brother's death--I helped stain that memory for you--now this--this unspeakable thing!”