en to a seat on the opposite side of the table, and
swung Amy into a chair by his side. His face was flushed, his motions
quick and nervous. Helen dumbly wondered if he too were conscious of a
struggle within himself, if his actions were forced, or if they were
natural, and she were reading her own unrest into them.

Elijah selected from the dish the largest and fairest orange, if choice
were possible. He poised it in the air for the fraction of a second.
"Catch," he said, and tossed it into Helen's hands. Another orange was
dropped into Amy's lap. Selecting one for himself, he began to tear the
acrid rind from the fruit and holding the stripped orange, looked at
Helen with eyes momentarily half-closed.

"Let's eat and drink to our success." His eyes opened wide as he turned
to Amy. "Here's food and drink, typical of all objects worth the
struggle.

'The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.'"

Elijah rose as he spoke, holding in one hand the stripped orange, in the
other the rind.

"This fruit is typical of life. It is fair to look upon. Its acrid rind
burns the lips; the thoughtless cast it aside. Only those who can see
beneath the bitter rind, the sweet, refreshing fruit, are worthy to
taste of it. We have tasted the bitterness, little girl, let us refresh
ourselves with the sweetness."

He raised the orange to his lips. Helen and Amy did the same. Helen was
still conscious of the tense muscles shaping her lips in a smile.

"Oatmeal?" Elijah was filling a dish and looking at Helen. Her face
flushed slightly.

"If you please."

Elijah laughed, and Amy gazed in mild wonder.

"It's our joke," he explained. "Miss Lonsdale said that she would have
fed me with something better than oatmeal if she had been my wife."

To this, Amy made no reply. She was absorbed in her thoughts. Her fear
of Helen was diminishing. In a way, she was enjoying her own cleverness.
It was clever in her to have drawn from Helen the secret of her hold
upon Elijah, without arousing any suspicions. "It's not so very hard,
just a little puzzling once in a while." These words stood out so
sharply and clearly. Amy's face clouded. She must not forget, and her
memory was not good. "A little practice and the thing is done." This was
clear. "A paper and pencil, a--" "What was it? Some kind of books." Her
face grew more perplexed and clouded. "Oh! What if she should forget? It
would never do to ask Helen again, Helen