that other queer name, Paracelsus, about which I know nothing and care less. “Poor Craig! He is getting awfully cheated. There is nothing real about me, except my face. I am fairly good looking and I mean to make him a good wife. He is easily gulled; shy men always are, or he would see through me. Mr. Hilton does, I am sure. I wish Craig had as much fun and fire in him. But comparisons are odious, and sometimes injurious to one’s peace of mind. It is something to be Mrs. Craig Mason of Boston, with a fine establishment on Commonwealth Avenue, and one can’t have the world. Did I tell you Craig was going to Boston with his mother to-morrow to be gone some days, and I am wicked enough to feel relieved. I know exactly what to say to a man to whom I am not engaged, but what to say to one to whom I _am_ engaged is a different thing. The excitement is over and only a dull surface of things left. I shall have time to think and get myself well in hand before he comes back. He is to bring several engagement rings for me to choose from, and will look at a house on the Avenue which is for sale and which he thinks will suit me. “And _you_ are to live with us! I have settled that in my own mind. I cannot live alone with a man and that man my husband, and know I am roped in,—done for,—finished; no more need of any little harmless tricks and deceptions, which are my very life. I believe I am growing wicked, so I’ll stop. Burn this letter as soon as you read it. It sounds heartless, and as if I didn’t care for Craig, when I do; but, oh, Alice, I wish I could turn myself inside out in the lap of some good woman and tell her all I feel. But I can’t. Mother would be horrified and so would you, and each for a different reason. I know you pray, and so do I, in a stupid, mechanical way, but I can’t to-night, nor ever again, perhaps, but you, who never did a mean act in your life, can pray for me. Your wicked “Cousin Helen.” Once Helen thought to tear this letter up, then decided to send it; and bade Celine take it down to the table in the lower hall where letters designed for the early mail were left. For a long time that night she tossed upon her pillow, unable to sleep, and, as a consequence, did not waken until after Craig and his mother had left for the 8 o’clock train. CHAPTER XX. IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE. The morning was long and lonely to Helen, who wondered what there was for a girl to do when all was over and settled. She felt that she ought to have been up and spoken with Craig before he left. He expected it, she knew, for he had asked Celine if she were awake, and when told she was still sleeping, had given the girl a note for her.