Helena, in her own room, opened one of her trunks, lifted out the tray, worked somewhat impatiently down through several layers of yellow, paper-covered literature, that would have made the classics on the Patriarch's bookshelves shrivel up and draw their skirts hurriedly around them in righteous horror could they but have known or been capable of such intensely human characteristics, and finally produced a daintily jewelled little cigarette case and match box. She slammed the tray back, slammed the cover of the trunk down, snatched up a wrap, flung it over her head and shoulders--and left the cottage. She ran down to the beach at top speed, as if she couldn't get there fast enough. "And now I'm just going to yell and go crazy as much as ever I like!" panted Helena to the rollers. Instead, she sat down with her back to a rock, and opened her cigarette case. She took out a cigarette, extracted a match from the match box, lighted the match--and flung both cigarette and match from her. "I don't want to be crazy--I don't know what I want," said Helena petulantly. Her chin went into her hands, and she stared wide-eyed at the breaking surf. "I wonder what it all means?" she murmured, with a mirthless little laugh. Her thoughts began to run riot. What _did_ it all mean? What was this faith? There was, there _must_ be something in it. There was the Holmes boy--suppose it _was_ only some nervous disorder--well, something had risen superior to whatever it was and had _cured_ him. There was Naida Thornton--true, she was ill again--her heart, Mr. Thornton had said--but she could still walk, a thing she had not been able to do for a long time until she came to Needley. Helena laughed again--oh, it was a good game! The Doc had made no mistake about that--but then, when it came to planting anything the Doc rarely did make a mistake. Fancy fifty thousand dollars in one haul! _Fifty thousand in one haul!_ The bank had sent her a passbook with that amount to her credit. And that was only the beginning--hardly anybody had come yet, and already there was several hundred dollars more in real money that she had handed over to Madison from the offering box. Money! They'd have more money than they'd know what to do with before they got through--there was nothing the matter with the game--all there was to do was to play it to a finish. And there wasn't the slightest risk about it--everything was given voluntarily. Oh, the game was all right--but somehow she wasn't happy--not nearly so happy as she had been in New York, even in lean periods when she and the Doc had been pressed for money. But, anyway, then they had been together, and fought, and laughed, and loved, and quarrelled through flush times and bad.