Arrived at Jim Burke’s small store, the customer scanned the place anxiously, and it seemed to him that its supplies had never been so meagre.  He succeeded in buying his lettuce, however, and a bottle of salad oil, and, remembering a can of asparagus tips on his own shelves, congratulated himself upon the attainment of his salad.  Some eggs which the grocer swore were above reproach, and some small bakery cakes, completed the possibilities of the place for quick consumption.  Brown ran back to the house again, his arms full of parcels, his mind struggling with the incredible fact that under his roof was housed, if only for an hour or two, the one being whom he would give all but his soul to keep.

Entering his kitchen by its outer door he stopped short upon the threshold.  A figure in a white blouse, blue serge skirt, and little white, beruffled apron, was arranging his table.  The table had been drawn into the middle of the room, his simple supplies of linen and silver had been discovered, and the preparations were nearly complete.  In the middle of the table in a glass bowl was a huge bunch of violets, come from he could not have guessed where, even if he had given any thought to the attempt.

But he gave no thought to anything but the figure before him.  If Helena Forrest, in the silks and laces of her usual evening attire, had been always one of extraordinary charm, in her present dress and setting she was infinitely more enchanting to the man who stood regarding her with his heart leaping into his throat.  The whole picture she presented was one of such engaging domesticity that no bachelor who had suffered the loneliness this one had known so many months could fail to appreciate it.  He dropped his parcels and came forward.  Mrs. Brainard was not in the room, and the door was closed between the kitchen and the living-room—­by accident, or intention?  The pulses in his temples were suddenly beating hard.

Helena did not turn.  She stood by the table, trifling with some little detail of spoon or napkin, and her down-bent profile was presented to Brown’s gaze.  As he stared at it a sudden vivid wave of colour swept over her cheek, such an evidence of inner feeling as he had seldom observed in her before, who usually had herself so well in hand.

He came close and stood looking down at that rich-hued cheek, the soft waves of her dusky hair drooping toward it.

“What does this mean?” he said, unsteadily and very low.  “This can’t be just to make me go mad with longing.  For that’s what I shall do if I look long at you like this, here in my home—­you looking as if—­as if—­you belonged here!”

He saw her hand tremble as it touched the violets in the bowl, arranging them.  It was a very beautiful hand, as he well knew, and he saw with fresh wonder that there were no rings upon it, where rare and costly ones were wont to be.

There was silence for an instant before her reply.  Then she turned and looked up, full into his face.