There were broken hours, I suppose, when some fleeting vision of the past absorbed her peace and joy. We never do escape those whispering tongues of memory that make speech with us from the years behind us. Sometimes in the late summer afternoon Helen, walking in her garden, would halt, transfixed as if a blow had fallen upon her. For the briefest moment she would see her young husband swinging along the path that led through the old shrubbery to this garden, his eyes fixed brightly upon her, the dear object of his love and hopes. And her heart leaped as in those first happy years. Then she would close her eyes, not always in time to hold back the tears. But if one is proud enough, there are tears which leave no trace upon a woman’s face. More frequently however, it was that last sight she had of him in the dining room of the Inn, held so firmly in the grasp of another woman that he dared not to rise when she, his wife, passed so near her skirts almost brushed him. She would never forget the livid shame and horror when he looked back and caught her eye nor the woman’s crackling laugh. Sometimes this scene flared before her, and she saw herself, with her hand still pressed to her breast, making her blind, staggering escape. It was a kind of insurance she carried against the awakening of the old tenderness for her husband. A year had gone by, another spring was at hand; and little Helen was learning to toddle on her sturdy legs, a pink rose of a baby with short, dark curls. “She is so good. Are all little children good?” Helen asked, smiling at Mrs. Arnold, who was paying one of her frequent visits. “At this age, yes,” the elder woman replied dryly. “And I have so little time to devote to her, now that the other baby has come,” Helen sighed. “The other baby!” Mrs. Arnold gasped. “Why, don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? I have just got a lovely boy,” Helen informed her. “Here? You have him now?” Helen nodded. “Come and see him. He is too young to bring out yet,” she explained. She led the way to the small crib in the nursery, where a very young infant lay asleep. “It is a fine child,” Mrs. Arnold announced gravely. “How many do you expect to--have?” she asked. “I don’t know yet. It will depend on how I get on with these; but at least three. This is little Samuel, named for father. The next one will be a girl, named Mary Elizabeth, for mother. I had to call the first one Helen. And I am afraid I shall always love her best. She was my first happiness, you see, after--after,” she repeated, “unhappiness. I doubt if the others will mean so much to me. Do they?” she asked anxiously. “I mean do mothers grow to love all their children alike?” “I don’t know, my dear; but you will,” Mrs. Arnold answered, her eyes filling with tears.