As there were only Prayer Books enough for the family, Helen, in distributing them, purposely passed Mark by, thinking he might not care to join them. But when the verse came round to Helen he quickly drew his chair near to hers, and taking one side of her book, performed his part, while Helen’s face grew red as the blossoms in her hair, and her hand, so near to Mark’s, trembled visibly. “A right nice chap, and not an atom stuck up,” was Aunt Betsy’s mental comment, and then, as he often will do, Satan followed the saintly woman even to her knees, making her wonder if “Mr. Ray hadn’t some notion after Helen.” She hoped not, for she meant that Morris should have Helen, “though if ’twas to be it was, and she should not go agin it;” and while Aunt Betsy thus settled the case, Uncle Ephraim’s prayer ended, and the conscience-smitten woman arose from her knees with the conviction that “the evil one had got the better of her once,” mentally asking pardon for her wandering thoughts and promising to do better. Mark was in no haste to retire, and when Uncle Ephraim offered to conduct him to his room, he frankly answered that he was not sleepy, adding, as he turned to Helen: “Please let me stay until Miss Lennox finishes her socks. There are several pairs yet undarned. I will not detain you, though,” he continued, bowing to Uncle Ephraim, who, a little uncertain what to do, finally departed, as did Aunt Hannah and his sister, leaving Helen and her mother to entertain Mark Ray. It had been Mrs. Lennox’s first intention to retire also, but a look from Helen kept her, and she sat down by that basket of socks, while Mark wished her away. Awhile they talked of Katy and New York, Mark laboring to convince Helen that its people were not all heartless and fickle, and at last citing his mother as an instance. “You would like mother, Miss Lennox. I hope you will know her some time,” he said, and then they talked of books, Helen forgetting that Mark was city-bred in the interest with which she listened to him, while Mark forgot that the girl who appreciated and understood his views almost before they were expressed, was country born, and clad in homely garb, with no ornaments save those of her fine mind and the sparkling face turned so fully towards him. “Mark Ray is not like Wilford Cameron,” Helen said to herself, when as the clock was striking eleven she bade him good night and went up to her room, and opening her window she leaned her hot cheek against the wet casement, and looked out upon the night, now so beautiful and clear, for the rain was over, and up in the heavens the bright stars were shining, each one bearing some resemblance to Mark’s eyes as they kindled and grew bright with his excitement, resting always kindly on her—on Helen, who leaning thus from the window, felt stealing over her that feeling which, once born, can never be quite forgotten.