"You mustn't be unhappy. I'm not. It isn't very polite to George--or me." "But when--when you think of that night--Oh! You must be miserable." "Then you should be." "I?" "It was your doing. You tormented him. You played with him. You liked to draw him on and push him back. You turned a man into a--into what we saw that night. George isn't the only man who can be changed into a beast when--when he meets Circe! With me--" Her voice broke with her quickened breathing. Her indignation was no longer for her own maimed life: it was for George, who had been used lightly as a plaything, broken, and given to her for mending. For a long time Miriam cried, and did not speak, and when she turned to ask a question Helen had almost forgotten her; for all her pity had gone out to George and beautified him and made him dear. "Tell me one thing," Miriam said earnestly. "It hadn't anything to do with me?" "What?" "Marrying him. You see, I fainted, didn't I?" "Yes." "Something might have happened then." "It did." "What was it?" "He fell in love with me!" She laughed. "It's possible, because it happened! Otherwise, of course, neither of us could believe it! Oh, don't be silly. Don't look miserable." "I can't help it. It's my fault. It's my fault if Zebedee is unhappy and if you are. Yes, it is, because if I hadn't--Still, I don't know why you married him." "I think it was meant to be. If we look back it seems as if it must have been." It was not Helen who looked through the window. "Yes," she said softly, "it is all working to one end. It had to be. Don't talk about it any more." Wide-eyed above her tear-stained cheeks, her throat working piteously, Miriam stared at this strange sister. "But tell me if you are happy," she said in a breaking voice. "Yes, I am. I love him," she said softly. Now, she did not lie. The pity that had taught her to love Mildred Caniper had the same lesson in regard to George, and that night, when she looked into the garden and saw him standing there, because he had been forbidden the house, she leaned from her bedroom window and held out her hands and ran downstairs to speak to him. "You looked so lonely," she told him. "Didn't you want me a little?" he asked. He looked down, big and gentle, and she felt her heart flutter as with wings. She nodded, and leaned against him. It was the truth: she did want him a little. CHAPTER XXXVI Miriam had the evidence of her own eyes to assure her that Helen was not unhappy. The strangely united bride and bridegroom were seen on the moor together, and they looked like lovers. Moreover, Helen stole out to meet him at odd hours, and, on the day before Miriam went away, she surprised them in a heathery dip of ground where Helen sewed and George read monotonously from a book. "I--didn't know you were here," Miriam stammered. "Well, we're not conspirators," Helen said. "Come and sit down. George is reading to me."