e had found a new existence. She had come in for her
inheritance--for her kingdom--the kingdom of human love which is the
inheritance of all of us, and which, when we come in for it, we would
never willingly renounce, no matter what tears it brings with it. Helena
Langley had found that she was no longer a thoughtless, impulsive girl,
but a real woman, with a heart and a hero and a love secret. She felt
proud of her discovery. Columbus found out that he had a heart before he
found out a new world; one wonders which discovery was the sweeter at
the time.

CHAPTER XIX

TYPICAL AMERICANS--NO DOUBT

Up in Hampstead the world seemed to wheel in its orbit more tranquilly
than in the feverish city which lay at the foot of its slopes. There was
something in its clear, its balsamic air, so cleanly free from the
eternal smoke-clouds of London, that seemed to invite to a repose, to a
leisurely movement in the procession of life. Captain Sarrasin once said
that it reminded him of the pure air of the prairie, almost of the keen
air of the canons. Captain Sarrasin always professed that he found the
illimitable spaces of the West too tranquillising for him. The sight of
those great, endless fields, the isolation of those majestic mountains,
suggested to him a recluse-like calm which never suited his quick-moving
temper. So he did not very often visit his brother in Hampstead, and the
brother in Hampstead, deeply engrossed in the grave cares of comparative
folk-lore, seldom dropped from his Hampstead eyrie into the troubled
city to seek out his restless brother. Hampstead was just the place for
the folk-lore-loving Sarrasin. No doubt that, actually, human life is
just the same in Hampstead as anywhere else, from Pekin to Peru, tossed
by the same passions, driven onward by the same racking winds of desire,
ambition, and despair. People love and hate and envy, feel mean or
murderous, according to their temper, as much on the slopes of Hampstead
as in the streets of London that lie at its foot. But such is not the
suggestion of Hampstead itself upon a tranquil summer day to the pensive
observer. It seems a peaceful, a sleepy hollow, an amiable elevated
lubber-land, affording to London the example of a kind of suburban
Nirvana.

So while London was fretting in all its eddies, and fretting
particularly for us in the eddy that swirled and circled around the
fortunes of the Dictator, up in Hampstead, at Blarulf's Garth, and in
th