digest his own soul. Margaret
and Helen have been more patient, and it is suggested that Margaret
has succeeded--so far as success is yet possible. She does understand
herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own growth. Whether
Helen has succeeded one cannot say.

The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen's letter arrived. She had posted
it at Munich, and would be in London herself on the morrow. It was a
disquieting letter, though the opening was affectionate and sane.

"DEAREST MEG,

"Give Helen's love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I love, and have loved
her ever since I can remember. I shall be in London Thursday.

"My address will be care of the bankers. I have not yet settled on a
hotel, so write or wire to me there and give me detailed news. If Aunt
Juley is much better, or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good
my coming down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not come.
I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am living abroad at present, and
want to get back as quickly as possible. Will you please tell me where
our furniture is? I should like to take out one or two books; the rest
are for you.

"Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather a tiresome letter,
but all letters are from your loving

"HELEN."

It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to tell a lie. If
she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in danger her sister would come.
Unhealthiness is contagious. We cannot be in contact with those who are
in a morbid state without ourselves deteriorating. To "act for the best"
might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, and, at the risk of
disaster, she kept her colours flying a little longer. She replied that
their aunt was much better, and awaited developments.

Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he was a pleasanter
companion than before. Oxford had done much for him. He had lost his
peevishness, and could hide his indifference to people and his interest
in food. But he had not grown more human. The years between eighteen and
twenty-two, so magical for most, were leading him gently from boyhood to
middle age. He had never known young-manliness, that quality which warms
the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox an imperishable charm. He
was frigid, through no fault of his own, and without cruelty. He thought
Helen wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was for him what
a scene behind footlights is for most people. He had only one sugge