before the intended time, whose delivery any accident might have frustrated, whose writer might have recalled it, —­did it demand no magnanimity of reply on her part?  Had he now no claim to the truth from her?  As she knew what he never would have told her an hour later, had she a right to recede from the position she had taken in response, simply because she could and he could not?  Should she ignobly refuse him his right?

Whether this were a sophism of sin or the logic of highest virtue, she, who would have blotted out her writing with her heart’s blood, did not wait to weigh.

“To him, also, I owe a duty!” she exclaimed, dropped the letter where she had found it, and fled,—­fled, hurrying through all the bewildering garden-walks, down from the fragrance, the serenity, the bowery seclusion, from all this conspiring loveliness that tempted her to dally and commanded her to stay,—­fled from this dream of passion, this region of joy,—­fled forever, as she thought, out into the wide, chill, lonely night.

Pushing off the boat and springing in, once more the water curled beneath the parting prow, and she shot with her flashing sail and hissing wake heedlessly, like a phantom, past another boat that was making more slowly in to shore.

“This way, Helen,” murmurs a subdued voice.  “There are some steps, Mr. Laudersdale.  Here we are; but it’s dark as Erebus.  Give me your hand; I’m half afraid; after that spectre that walked the water just now, these shadows are not altogether agreeable.  There’s the door,—­careful housekeeper, this Mr. Raleigh!  I wonder what McLean would say.  Don’t believe he’d like it.”

“What made you come, then?” asks Helen, as they step within.

“Oh, just for the frolic; it was getting stupid, too.  I suppose we’ve ruined our dresses.  But there! we must hurry and get back.  I didn’t think it would take so long.  He can’t manage a boat so well as Roger,” adds Mrs. McLean, in a whisper.

“Goodness!” exclaims Helen.  “I can’t see an inch of the way.  We shall certainly deal devastation.”

“I’ve been exploring a mantel-shelf; here’s a candle, but how to light it?  Haven’t you a match, Mr. Laudersdale?”

That gentleman produces one from a little pocket-safe; it proves a failure,—­and so a second, and a third.

“This is the last, Mrs. McLean.  Have your candle ready.”

The little jet of flame flashes up.

“Quick, Helen! a scrap of paper, quick!”

“I don’t know where to find any.  Here’s a billet on the floor; the seal’s broken; Mr. Raleigh don’t read his letters, you know; shall I take it?”

“Anything, yes!  My fingers are burning!  Quick, it’s the last match!  There!”

Helen waves a tiny flambeau, the candle is lighted, the flame whirled down upon the hearth and trodden out.