ting, nor yet embroidery, but the very
homely work of darning Uncle Ephraim's socks, a task which Helen always
did, and on that particular night. Helen knew it was not delicate
employment and there was a moment's hesitancy as she wondered what Mark
would think--then with a grim delight in letting him see that she did
not care, she resumed her darning needle, and as a kind of penance of
the flash of pride in which she had indulged, selected from the basket
the very coarsest, ugliest sock she could find, stretching out the huge
fracture at the heel to its utmost extent, and attacking it with a right
good will, while Mark, with a comical look on his face, sat watching
her. She knew he was looking at her, and her cheeks were growing very
red, while her hatred of him was increasing, when he said, abruptly:
"You follow my mother's custom, I see. She used to mend my socks on
Tuesday nights."

"Your mother mend socks!" and Helen started so suddenly as to run the
point of her darning needle a long way into her thumb, the wound
bringing a stream of blood which she tried to wipe away with her
handkerchief.

"Bind it tightly around. Let me show you, please," Mark said, and ere
she was aware of what she was doing Helen was quietly permitting the
young man to wind her handkerchief around her thumb which he held in his
hand, pressing it until the blood ceased flowing, and the sharp pain had
abated.

Perhaps Mark Ray liked holding that small, warm hand, even though it
were not as white and soft as Juno's; at all events he did hold it until
Helen drew it from him with a quick, sudden motion, telling him it would
now do very well, and she would not trouble him. Mark did not look as if
he had been troubled, but went back to his seat and took up the
conversation just where the needle had stopped it.

"My mother did not always mend herself, but she caused it to be done,
and sometimes helped. I remember she used to say a woman should know
how to do everything pertaining to a household, and she carried out her
theory in the education of my sister."

"Have you a sister?" Helen asked, now really interested, and listening
intently while Mark told her of his only sister, Julia, now Mrs. Ernst,
whose home was in New Orleans, though she at present was in Paris, and
his mother was there with her. "After Julia's marriage, nine years ago,
mother went to live with her," he said, "but latterly, as the little
Ernsts increase so fast, she wishes for