Bess dropped to her knees and read the word HELEN. That was all. That was enough. What could cold, hard words tell of her who was sleeping there? “Helen,” the world might read, and perhaps give a sigh. “Helen,” the man now read, and his heart yearned for his dear, lost sister and for the love that had been torn from him. What idle print could show the grief and misery that had broken that young heart? “Helen” was all Bess saw, and yet intuitively she read pages of love, sacrifice, heartaches, hope, pain and glory. She arose, and impulsively placing both her hands against the dark man’s face, she said in a whisper of sympathy, “Henry—Henry! Why cannot I be your sister? Let me fill her place in your heart! Let me take up the broken thread and finish the weaving! Can I? May I?” My God! What was she saying! What had he heard? “Henry, Henry” rang in the man’s ears, sweeter than any music. She had spoken his name, now, today; and how he had longed to hear her lips frame that homely word. He re-caught the echo of her appeal. It was not love that prompted her then; it was only pity. Were love and pity akin? When he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to reply he clasped both her hands in his own for a brief moment. Then he stepped back and flung up his head. With set jaws he said, in such a low voice that Bess leaned forward on the tiny marble cross to catch the words, “I could not go into the church—I could not pray while hatred tore my heart in pieces—I could not forget her—her misery—I stayed here near her—to tell her again she shall be aven—” Hastily collecting himself and smothering his passion, he continued, “Thank you, little girl—Bess, I may now say; thank you for your sympathy and your pity. I know you are sincere, but somehow—somehow—there is still a void here,” as he clutched at his pounding heart. “Your words do not suffice—they cannot, will not. No, only she—Helen—could be a sister.” Had Bess not been so unsophisticated she would have understood the subtle meaning of his words. As it was, she only felt her unworthiness, and was sorry her impulsive nature had thrust itself forward. For a moment there was an awkward silence, which Henry West relieved: “Come, I will show you about the grounds and buildings. James is visiting with Father Damien, over there near the church,” and he led the silent girl away.