There was a sadness in his voice which almost brought the tears into her eyes--mostly for his sake, partly for her own. For, though he might never know it, were not his sorrows her sorrows? "Are they sorrows which you can tell to no one?" she asked softly. "Can no one help you?" He shook his head. "No one." "And yet no sorrow can last for ever that has not guilt at its root," she said. "Mine will last while life lasts," he answered; "and there is--no guilt at the root." "You have taken up another's burden," she said. "Is it well? Do you owe nothing to yourself, and your own genius? Sorrow may shorten your life, and the world can ill spare your work." "There are others who can do my work," he said. "No other can----But forgive me. I wish to talk of this no more. Tell me of your life since I left you. Something in your face tells me that it has been well spent. Let me hear of it." And, gathering up all her courage, she told him. Piece by piece she took up the disconnected thoughts and ideas which had come to her, and wove them together after the pattern of her life--to which he listened with a calm approval, in which was sometimes mingled a deeper enthusiasm, as she touched a chord which in his own being had often been struck to deep tremulous music. And as she went on he grew sad. With such a companion as this woman, whose sensibilities were his sensibilities, and whose instincts so naturally cultured, so capable of the deeper coloring and emotional passion which his influence could speedily develop--with such a woman as this--whom already he loved, what might not life mean for him? Well, it must pass. Another of those bright butterfly visions of his fancy, gorgeous with hope and brilliancy--another one to be crushed by the iron hand of necessity. He had gone away wounded, and he had come back to find the wound still bleeding. Gradually the rooms were thinning, and at last Lady Thurwell, impatient of her niece's long absence, came to fetch her. When she found her _tete-a-tete_ with the lion of the day, however, her manner was most gracious. "I hope you have been able to persuade Mr. Maddison to come and see us," she said to her niece. "We are at home on Thursdays at Cadogan Square, and we lunch every day at two," she added, turning towards him. "Come whenever you like." "You are very good, Lady Thurwell," he said, accepting her offered hand. "I am only passing through London, but if I have the opportunity I shall avail myself of your kindness." She left them together for a moment while she made her adieux to her hostess. In that moment Helen found courage to yield to a sudden impulse. "Please come," she said softly. He had no time to answer, for Lady Meltoun had come up to them.