rning of a new life to her--and yet should chain her remorselessly
to the old! True, she had broken with Madison, irrevocably, forever, she
supposed, it could not be other than that, for the ugly bond between
them was severed--but the game still went on! In repentance, on her
bended knees, sobbing as a tired and worn-out child, she could ask for
forgiveness; but the double life, the duplicity, by reason of the very
nature in which they had fashioned this iniquitous monster, still went
on, and like some hideous octopus reached out its waving, feeling
tentacles to encircle her--the Patriarch there; the world-wide
publicity, those poor creatures upon whose misery and whose suffering,
upon whose frantic, frenzied snatching out at hope they had preyed and
fed and gorged themselves; the life itself that she had taken up, in its
minutiae, in its care of this great-souled, great-hearted man so dear to
her now, the life itself because it was what it was, changed though she
herself might be, though her soul cried out against it in its new-found
purity--all this still held her fast! The end--she could not see the
end. What would Madison do--and there was Thornton. Thornton! She caught
her breath a little. Yes; she had promised Thornton she would see him
to-night--she knew well enough why he wanted to see her--last night had
told her that--he loved her. Her face softened. Last night--it seemed a
thousand years ago, and it seemed but as an instant passed--last
night--she had learned what love was, and--

The Flopper stirred uneasily.

"Wot'll I tell him?" asked the Flopper. "He's waitin' out dere by de
porch."

"Why--why nothing," said Helena, and she smiled a little tremulously at
the Flopper. "Nothing. I'll--I'll go and see him."

"Say, Helena," protested the Flopper, "don't youse--"

But Helena stepped by him now.

"Don't leave the Patriarch," she cautioned, turning on the threshold.
"I--I won't be late."

She passed down the little hall, through the still, quiet room beyond,
empty now, through the porch, and out into the night--and then from out
the shadows by the row of maples, Thornton came hurriedly toward her,
holding out his hands.

"It's good of you to come, Miss Vail," he said, in his grave, quiet way.
"You must be nearly dead with weariness after last night, and I am
afraid I am not very thoughtful--only I--" he broke off suddenly. "Shall
we sit here on the bench for a little while, or would you rather
walk--I-