“I tried to get her to come over to hear the speech, but she wouldn't,” the Major was saying. “I can't make her out here lately, Mrs. Dwight. She used to be so different in anything concerning Carson. She is now actually hiding behind the vines on the veranda.” “Perhaps she is so much in love with Mr. Sanders that she--” “That's the very point,” the Major broke in. “She won't talk about Sanders, and she--well, really, I think the two have quit writing to each other.” “Perhaps she--oh, do you think, Major, that--” Carson heard no more; his father had come forward and was talking to Garner. Carson slipped away. He glided down the stairs and out at the door on the side next to Warren's and rapidly strode across the grass. Passing through the little gateway, he reached the veranda and the vines concealing the spot where the hammock was hanging. He saw no one at first and heard no sound. Then he called out: “Helen!” “What is it?” a timid, even startled voice from the vines answered, and Helen looked out. “Why didn't you come over with your father?” Carson asked. “He said he wanted you to, but you preferred to stay here.” “I _did_ want to congratulate you,” Helen, said, as he came up the steps and they stood face to face. “I'm so happy over it, Carson, that really I was afraid I'd show it too much.” “I'm glad you feel that way,” he said, awkwardly. “It was a hard fight, and I thought several times I was beaten.” “What did you ever touch that wasn't hard?” she said, with a sweet, reminiscent laugh. They were silent for a moment and then he said: “I'm not quite satisfied with your reason for not coming over with your father just now--really, you see, it is in a line with your actions for the last six weeks. Helen, you actually have avoided me.” “On the contrary,” she said, “you have made it a point to stay away from me.” “Well,” he sighed, “considering, you know, Sanders and his claims, I really thought I'd better keep my place.” “Oh!” Helen exclaimed, and then she sank deeper into the vines. For one instant he stood trembling before her, and then he asked, boldly: “Helen, tell me, are you engaged to him?” She made no answer for a moment, and then in the moonlight he saw her flushed face against the vines and caught an almost startled glance from her wonderful eyes. She looked straight at him. “No, I'm not, and I never have been,” she said. “You never have been?” he repeated. “Oh, Helen--” But he went no further. For a moment he hung fire, then he said: “Don't you care for him, Helen? Are you and I good enough friends for me to dare to ask that?” “I thought once that I might love him, in time” she faltered; “but when I came home and found--and found how deeply I had misunderstood and wronged you, I--I--” She broke off, her face buried in the leaves of the vines.