But when Harkless's step crunched the garden path there was no one there. Asters were blooming in beds between the green rose-bushes, and their many-fingered hands were flung open in wide surprise that he should expect to find young Fisbee there. It was just before sunset. Birds were gossiping in the sycamores on the bank. At the foot of the garden, near the creek, there were some tall hydrangea bushes, flower-laden, and, beyond them, one broad shaft of the sun smote the creek bends for a mile in that flat land, and crossed the garden like a bright, taut-drawn veil. Harkless passed the bushes and stepped out into this gold brilliance. Then he uttered a cry and stopped. Helen was standing beside the hydrangeas, with both hands against her cheeks and her eyes fixed on the ground. She had run away as far as she could run; there were high fences extending down to the creek on each side, and the water was beyond. “_You_!” he said. “_You--you_!” She did not lift her eyes, but began to move away from him with little backward steps. When she reached the bench on the bank, she spoke with a quick intake of breath and in a voice he scarcely heard. It was the merest whisper, and her words came so slowly that sometimes minutes separated them. “Can you--will you keep me--on the 'Herald'?” “Keep you----” “Will you--let me--help?” He came near her. “I don't understand. Is it you--you--who are here again?” “Have you--forgiven me? You know now why I wouldn't--resign? You forgive my--that telegram?” “What telegram?” “That one that came to you--this morning.” “_Your_ telegram?” “Yes.” “Did you send me one?” “Yes.” “It did not come to me.” “Yes--it did.” “But there--What was it about?” “It was signed,” she said, “it was signed--” She paused and turned half way, not lifting the downcast lashes; her hand, laid upon the arm of the bench, was shaking; she put it behind her. Then her eyes were lifted a little, and, though they did not meet his, he saw them, and a strange, frightened glory leaped in his heart. Her voice fell still lower and two heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. “It was signed,” she whispered, “it was signed--'H. Fisbee.'” He began to tremble from head to foot. There was a long silence. She had turned quite away from him. When he spoke, his voice was as low as hers, and he spoke as slowly as she had. “You mean--then--it was--you?” “Yes.” “You!” “Yes.” “And you have been here all the time?” “All--all except the week you were--hurt, and that--that one evening.” The bright veil which wrapped them was drawn away, and they stood in the silent, gathering dusk. He tried to loosen his neck-band; it seemed to be choking him. “I--I can't--I don't comprehend it. I am trying to realize what it----” “It means nothing,” she answered. “There was an editorial, yesterday,” he said, “an editorial that I thought was about Rodney McCune. Did you write it?” “Yes.” “It was about--me--wasn't it?” “Yes.”