She reflected. “Well,” she said, “it seems to me that, all things being as they are, he should do this: He should go to the sideshow man--the minister now--and have a very frank talk with him. He should tell him that he had decided to say nothing about the old life and to help him in every way, to be his friend--provided that he keep straight, that is all. Of course more than that would be meant, the alternative would be there and understood, but he need not say it. I think that course of action would be fair to himself and to everybody. That is my answer. What is yours?” He laughed quietly. “Just that, of course,” he said. “You would see it, I knew. You always see down to the heart of things, Helen. You have the gift.” She shook her head. “It didn't really need a gift, this particular problem, did it?” she said. “It is not--excuse me--it isn't exactly a new one.” “No, it isn't. It is as old as the hills, but there are always new twists to it.” “As there are to all our old problems.” “Yes. By the way, your advice about the ending of my third story was exactly what I needed. The editor wrote me he should never have forgiven me if it had ended in any other way. It probably WOULD have ended in another way if it hadn't been for you. Thank you, Helen.” “Oh, you know there was really nothing to thank me for. It was all you, as usual. Have you planned the next story, the fifth, yet?” “Not entirely. I have some vague ideas. Do you want to hear them?” “Of course.” So they discussed those ideas as they walked along the sidewalk of the street leading down to the parsonage. It was a warm evening, a light mist, which was not substantial enough to be a fog, hanging low over everything, wrapping them and the trees and the little front yards and low houses of the old village in a sort of cozy, velvety, confidential quiet. The scent of lilacs was heavy in the air. They both were silent. Just when they had ceased speaking neither could have told. They walked on arm in arm and suddenly Albert became aware that this silence was dangerous for him; that in it all his resolves and brave determinations were melting into mist like that about him; that he must talk and talk at once and upon a subject which was not personal, which-- And then Helen spoke. “Do you know what this reminds me of?” she said. “All this talk of ours? It reminds me of how we used to talk over those first poems of yours. You have gone a long way since then.” “I have gone to Kaiserville and back.” “You know what I mean. I mean your work has improved wonderfully. You write with a sure hand now, it seems to me. And your view is so much broader.” “I hope I'm not the narrow, conceited little rooster I used to be. I told you, Helen, that the war handed me an awful jolt. Well, it did. I think it, or my sickness or the whole business together, knocked most of that self-confidence of mine galley-west. For so much I'm thankful.”