msically. Humor was not his strong point, but he was capable
of brilliancy just then. Julius Savine laughed heartily, and when the
tale was finished all had settled down to their normal manner. When
Geoffrey took his leave, however, Helen followed him to the veranda,
and held out her hand. She stood close to him with the moonlight full
upon her, and it was only by an effort that the man who gripped the
slender fingers, conquered his desire to draw her towards him. Helen
never had looked so desirable. Then he dropped her hand, and stood
impassively still, waiting for what she had to say.

"I could not thank you before my father, but neither could I let you go
without a word," she said, with a quiet composure which, because she
must have guessed at the struggle within him, was the badge of courage.
"You have won my undying gratitude, and----"

"That is a great deal, very well worth the winning," he responded. "It
will be one pleasant memory to carry away with me."

"To carry with you! You are not going away?" asked Helen, with an
illogical sense of dismay, which was not, however, in the least
apparent. She knew that any sign of feeling would provoke the crisis
from which she shrank.

"Yes," declared Geoffrey. "Once this work is completed, I shall seek
another field."

"You must not!" Though her voice was strained, Helen, who dared not do
otherwise, looked him steadily in the eyes. "You must not go. Now,
when, if you stay in the Province, fame and prosperity lie within your
grasp you will not overwhelm me by adding to the knowledge of all I
have robbed you of. It is hard for me to express myself plainly--but I
dare not take this from you, too."

"Can you not guess how hard it all is for me?" He strode a few paces
apart from her while the words fell from his lips. Then he halted
again and turned towards her.

"I had not meant to distress you--but how can I go on seeing you so
near me, hearing your voice, when every word and smile stir up a
longing that at times almost maddens me? What I have done I did for
you, and did it gladly, but this new command I cannot obey. Fame and
prosperity! What are either worth to me when the one thing I would
sell my life for is, you have told me, not to be attained?"

"I am sorry," faltered Helen, whose breath came faster. "More sorry
than I can well express. I dare not ruin a bright future for you. Is
there nothing I can say that will prevent you?"

"Only one