Helen said nothing in reply. She thought her cousin very clever, but could not enjoy what he said--not in the face of that sky, and in the yet lingering reflection of the feelings it had waked in her. He might be right, but now at least she wanted no more of it. She even felt as if she would rather cherish a sweet deception for the comfort of the moment in which the weaver’s shuttle flew, than take to her bosom a cold killing fact. Such were indeed an unworthy feeling to follow! Of all things let us have the truth--even of fact! But to deny what we cannot prove, not even casts into our ice-house a spadeful of snow. What if the warm hope denied should be the truth after all? What if it was the truth in it that drew the soul towards it by its indwelling reality, and its relations with her being, even while she took blame for suffering herself to be enticed by a sweet deception? Alas indeed for men if the life and the truth are not one, but fight against each other! Surely it says something for the divine nature of him that denies the divine, when he yet cleaves to what he thinks the truth, although it denies the life, and blots the way to the better from every chart! “And what were you thinking of, George?” said Helen, willing to change the subject. “I was thinking,” he answered, “let me see!--oh! yes--I was thinking of that very singular case of murder. You must have seen it in the newspapers. I have long had a doubt whether I were better fitted for a barrister or a detective. I can’t keep my mind off a puzzling case.--You must have heard of this one--the girl they found lying in her ball-dress in the middle of a wood--stabbed to the heart?” “I do remember something of it,” answered Helen, gathering a little courage to put into her voice from the fact that her cousin could hardly see her face. “Then the murderer has not been discovered?” “That is the point of interest. Not a trace of him! Not a soul suspected even!” Helen drew a deep breath. “Had it been in Rome, now,” George went on. “But in a quiet country place in England! The thing seems incredible! So artistically done!--no struggle!--just one blow right to the heart, and the assassin gone as if by magic!--no weapon dropped!--nothing to give a clue! The whole thing suggests a practised hand.--But why such a one for the victim? Had it been some false member of a secret society thus immolated, one could understand it. But a merry girl at a ball!--it IS strange! I SHOULD like to try the unravelling of it.” “Has nothing then been done?” said Helen with a gasp, to hide which she moved in her saddle, as if readjusting her habit.