in a moment she found herself in a close-covered vehicle, with Mark
sitting opposite, tucking the warm blanket around her, asking if she
were cold, and paying those numberless little attentions so gratifying
to one always accustomed to act and think for herself.

Helen could not see Mark's face distinctly; but full of fear for Katy,
she fancied there was a sad tone in his voice, as if he were keeping
something back, something he dreaded to tell her; and then, as it
suddenly occurred to her that Wilford should have met her, not Mark, her
great fear found utterance in words, and leaning forward so that her
face almost touched Mark's, she said: "Tell me, Mr. Ray, is Katy dead?"

"Not dead, oh, no, nor yet very dangerous, my mother hopes; but she kept
asking for you, and so my--that is, Mr. Cameron, sent the telegram."

There was an ejaculatory prayer of thankfulness, and then Helen
continued: "Is it long since she was taken sick?"

"Her little daughter will be a week old to-morrow," Mark replied; while
Helen, with an exclamation of surprise she could not repress, sank back
into the corner, faint and giddy with the excitement of this fact, which
invested little Katy with a new dignity, but drew her, oh, so much
nearer to the sister who could scarcely wait for the carriage to stop,
so anxious was she to be where Katy was, to kiss her dear face once
more, and whisper the words of love she knew she must have longed to
hear.

Awe-struck, bewildered and half terrified, Helen looked up at the huge
brown structure, which Mark designated as "the place." It was so lofty,
so high, so like the Camerons, and so unlike the farmhouse far away,
that Helen trembled as she followed Mark into the rooms flooded with
light, and seeming to her like fairyland. They were so different from
anything she had imagined, so much handsomer than even Katy's vivid
descriptions had implied, that for the moment the sight took her breath
away, and she sank passively into the chair Mark brought for her,
himself taking her muff and tippet, and noting, as he did so, that they
were not mink, nor yet Russian sable, but well-worn, well-kept fitch,
such as Juno would laugh at and criticise. But Helen's dress was a
matter of small moment to Mark, as he thought more of the look in her
dark eyes as she said to him: "You are very kind, Mr. Ray. I cannot
thank you enough," than of all the furs in Broadway. This remark had
been wrung from Helen by the feeling of home