was growing up between them, springing from the depths of their
beings, and becoming closer even when they were silent. Sometimes
Juliette, rather ashamed of monopolizing all the talk, would cease her
magpie chatter.

"Dear me!" she would exclaim, "you are getting bored, aren't you? We
are talking of matters which can have no possible interest for you."

"Oh, never mind me," Helene answered blithely. "I never tire. It is a
pleasure to me to listen and say nothing."

She was uttering no untruth. It was during the lengthy periods of
silence that she experienced most delight in being there. With her
head bent over her work, only lifting her eyes at long intervals to
exchange with the doctor those interminable looks that riveted their
hearts the closer, she willingly surrendered herself to the egotism of
her emotion. Between herself and him, she now confessed it, there
existed a secret sentiment, a something very sweet--all the sweeter
because no one in the world shared it with them. But she kept her
secret with a tranquil mind, her sense of honor quite unruffled, for
no thought of evil ever disturbed her. How good he was to his wife and
child! She loved him the more when he made Lucien jump or kissed
Juliette on the cheek. Since she had seen him in his own home their
friendship had greatly increased. She was now as one of the family;
she never dreamt that the intimacy could be broken. And within her own
breast she called him Henri--naturally, too, from hearing Juliette
address him so. When her lips said "Sir," through all her being
"Henri" was re-echoed.

One day the doctor found Helene alone under the elms. Juliette now
went out nearly every afternoon.

"Hello! is my wife not with you?" he exclaimed.

"No, she has left me to myself," she answered laughingly. "It is true
you have come home earlier than usual."

The children were playing at the other end of the garden. He sat down
beside her. Their _tete-a-tete_ produced no agitation in either of
them. For nearly an hour they spoke of all sorts of matters, without
for a moment feeling any desire to allude to the tenderness which
filled their hearts. What was the good of referring to that? Did they
not well know what might have been said? They had no confession to
make. Theirs was the joy of being together, of talking of many things,
of surrendering themselves to the pleasure of their isolation without
a shadow of regret, in the very spot where every evening he embra