"No," Helena answered sharply; "tell him nothing--I'm out." Then, quite
as quickly, changing her mind: "Yes; tell him I'm down there--or come
and get me yourself"--and she walked abruptly into her own room.

"Now wot do youse t'ink of dat?" demanded the Flopper of the universe.
He blinked at the door she had closed in his face. "Say," he asserted,
with sublime inconsistency, "if Mamie Rodgers was like all de rest of
dem, I'd t'row up me dukes before de gong rang." The Flopper went into
the Patriarch's room, and took the chair beside the other that Helena
had vacated. "Swipe me, if I wouldn't!" he added fervently, by way of
confirmation.

Helena, in her own room, opened one of her trunks, lifted out the tray,
worked somewhat impatiently down through several layers of yellow,
paper-covered literature, that would have made the classics on the
Patriarch's bookshelves shrivel up and draw their skirts hurriedly
around them in righteous horror could they but have known or been
capable of such intensely human characteristics, and finally produced a
daintily jewelled little cigarette case and match box. She slammed the
tray back, slammed the cover of the trunk down, snatched up a wrap,
flung it over her head and shoulders--and left the cottage.

She ran down to the beach at top speed, as if she couldn't get there
fast enough.

"And now I'm just going to yell and go crazy as much as ever I like!"
panted Helena to the rollers.

Instead, she sat down with her back to a rock, and opened her cigarette
case. She took out a cigarette, extracted a match from the match box,
lighted the match--and flung both cigarette and match from her.

"I don't want to be crazy--I don't know what I want," said Helena
petulantly. Her chin went into her hands, and she stared wide-eyed at
the breaking surf. "I wonder what it all means?" she murmured, with a
mirthless little laugh.

Her thoughts began to run riot. What _did_ it all mean? What was this
faith? There was, there _must_ be something in it. There was the Holmes
boy--suppose it _was_ only some nervous disorder--well, something had
risen superior to whatever it was and had _cured_ him. There was Naida
Thornton--true, she was ill again--her heart, Mr. Thornton had said--but
she could still walk, a thing she had not been able to do for a long
time until she came to Needley.

Helena laughed again--oh, it was a good game! The Doc had made no
mistake about that--but then, when it came to plan