resting; an intent
anxiety seemed to pervade his big frame, and Helen could not fail to
observe it. She glanced at him, as he sat frowning into the fire, but he
did not notice her.

"Something troubles you, Gifford."

He started. "Yes," he said. He changed his position, leaning his elbows
on his knees, and propping his chin on his fists, and still scowling at
the fire. "Yes, I came to speak to you about it."

"I wish you would," Helen answered. But Gifford found it difficult to
begin.

"I've had a letter from aunt Ruth to-day," he said at last, "and it has
bothered me. I don't know how to tell you, exactly; you will think it's
none of my business."

"Is there anything wrong at the rectory?" Helen asked, putting down her
work, and drawing a quick breath.

"Oh, no, no, of course not," answered Gifford, "nothing like that. The
fact is, Helen--the fact is--well, plainly, aunt Ruth thinks that that
young Forsythe is in love with Lois."

Gifford's manner, as he spoke, told Helen what she had only surmised
before, and she was betrayed into an involuntary expression of sympathy.

"Oh," cried the young man, with an impatient gesture and a sudden flush
tingling across his face, "you misunderstand me. I haven't come to whine
about myself, or anything like that. I'm not jealous; for Heaven's sake,
don't think I am such a cur as to be jealous! If that man was worthy of
Lois, I--why, I'd be the first one to rejoice that she was happy. I want
Lois to be happy, from my soul! I hope you believe me, Helen?"

"I believe anything you tell me," she answered gently, "but I don't quite
understand how you feel about Mr. Forsythe; every one speaks so highly of
him. Even aunt Deely has only pleasant things to say of 'young Forsythe,'
as she calls him."

Gifford left his chair, and began to walk about the room, his hands
grasping the lapels of his coat, and his head thrown back in a troubled
sort of impatience. "That's just it," he said; "in this very letter aunt
Ruth is enthusiastic, and I can't tell you anything tangible against him,
only I don't like him, Helen. He's a puppy,--that's the amount of it. And
I thought--I just thought--I'd come and ask you if you supposed--if
you--of course I've no business to ask any question--but if you
thought"--

But Helen had understood his vague inquiry, "I should think," she said
"you would know that if he is what you call a _puppy_ Lois couldn't care
for him."

Gifford sat down, and took h