some boys," replied Cora, running along and noting that the
men with the dogs were close by. "Jack is dark. I really could not
tell the color of his eyes!"

"And he is your brother!"

"The very reason," said Cora with something like a laugh. "Now I know
that Walter has eyes like his hair, and his hair is not like anything
else."

"But Ed's?" and at this Helka smiled prettily. "I had an idea that
Ed's eyes were sort of composite. A bit of love, that would be blue,"
and she picked up a late violet, "a bit of faith, gray for that," and
she found a spray of wild geranium, "and a bit of black for steadfast
honor. There! I must find a black-eyed Susan," and at this she
actually ran away from Cora, and left the frightened girl with the men
and dogs too close to her heels for comfort.

For a moment Cora wanted to scream. She was too nervous to remember
that she had been promised security by Helka: all she knew, and all she
felt, was danger, and danger to her was now a thing unbearable.

"Helka! Helka!" she called wildly.

The other girl, running nymph-like through the woods, turned at the
call, and putting her hands in trumpet shape to her lips, answered as
do school girls and boys when out of reach of the more conventional
forms of conversation.

"Here I am," came the reply. "What is it, Cora?"

"Wait for me," screamed the frightened girl, while those dreadful dogs
actually sniffed at her heels.

Cora felt just then that the strain of being so near freedom, and yet
so far from it, was even worse than being in the big room.

"I know where there are some beautiful fall wild flowers," said Helka.
"We may walk along for a good distance yet. These grounds are mine,
you know."

"If they were only mine!" Cora could not help expressing.

"You see, my dear, I owe something to my dear, dead mother. She loved
this life."

"But your father. Did he?"

"I can't say. I wish I might find him. He is not really dead."

"Not dead!"

"No. I say so at times because we call certain conditions death, but I
do believe my father lives--abroad."

"And he is a nobleman?"

"You folks would call him that, but he is not one of us."

"How strange that you should be so bound by traditions! And you know
your lover--is not one of you."

"Oh, yes, he is. That is what makes him love me. He is called a
socialist. He is not a gypsy, but he will not be bound by
conventionalities."

"But suppose he knew of this crime?