e is no further
motion, this meeting is adjourned."

The elders rose, and with the exception of Mr. Johnson, retreated in
embarrassed haste. They ducked their heads, and made a guttural noise in
their throats, as though to say good-night; but they were ashamed to
speak to him, though Mr. Bent said as he turned his back on the preacher,
"We'll--ah--pray for her."

Mr. Johnson stopped to justify his presence, and say again, "Don't notice
it, Mr. Ward. I'd just gently like bring her round some time; keep on
prayin', an' all that, but don't force it. It will only make trouble for
you."

John hurried away from him, stung to the quick. This, then, was his own
real attitude; this was what his plea of wisdom had meant this last year.
His own deceit loomed up before his soul, and the sky of faith grew
black. One by one, the accusations of the elders repeated themselves to
him, and he made no protest. His assenting conscience left him absolutely
defenseless.

CHAPTER XXIII.

There was a strange unreality about Helen's wakening, the first morning
in Ashurst.

The year in Lockhaven seemed to have made as little change as a dream.
Here she was, back in her old room. How familiar everything looked! Her
little white bed; the old cherry-wood dressing-case, with its shining
brass rings and spotless linen cover; the morning sunshine dancing with
the shadows of the leaves, and falling in a golden square upon the floor;
the curtains at the south window blowing softly to and fro in the fresh
wind, and the flutter of wings outside in the climbing roses; even the
bunch of white lilacs on the little table, apparently all just as she had
left them nearly a year ago. Lockhaven and theology were behind her, and
yet in some indefinable way she was a stranger in a strange land.

The consciousness of a difference had come the night before, when Lois
poured out her fears and griefs to her cousin (all except her promise to
Mrs. Forsythe) as soon as they were alone.

Lois felt no difference. Helen had been away for a long time, but she was
still the same Helen to her; strong, and true, and gentle, with perhaps a
little more gravity in her eyes, but Lois was so grave herself she did
not notice that. Whereas with Helen there was a dual life: the one,
absorbing, passionate, and intense; the other, a memory; a tender,
beautiful past, no longer a necessity.

Helen's joys had come between her and this once dear home life, and even
while L