He stopped short in his walk.  Was he changed so much as this!  Did he care so much that it was her happiness—­even with another—­that counted most!  Yes; it was true—­he was changed indeed.  And the change had brought him too, it seemed, to learn what love was—­too late.

He went forward again—­a little more slowly; now; a sadness upon him, but, through the sadness, an uplift from that new sense of freedom that was as a balm, soothing him in the most curious way.  His had been a rude awakening—­mind and body and soul had been torn asunder; but he knew now, as he recalled the hours just past when he had looked on fear, when the gamut of human passion had raged over him, when he had stood staggered and appalled before, yes, before his God, that he had come forth a new man.  And how strange had been the ending, how strange and simple, and yet how significant, typifying the broad, clean outlook on life, bringing coherency to his tottering mind, had been those words of Thornton’s—­“because he loved her.”

He had reached the end of the wagon track now, and he walked across the lawn, his steps noiseless on the velvet sward, and passed between the maples; and the moon gleam—­for the flying clouds, rear-guard of the routed storm, were flung wide apart, dispersed—­fell upon a coiled and huddled little figure all in white, that was quite still and motionless upon the rustic seat beside the porch.

She did not see him, did not hear him, until he stood before her and called her name.

“Helena!” he said unsteadily.  “Helena!”

She raised her head and looked at him; and then she rose from the bench, and, still holding to it by one hand, drew back a little.  There was no outcry, no startled action.  Her dark eyes played questioningly upon him—­and he could see that they were wet with tears, and that the face from out of which they looked was very white.

“Why have you come back here to-night?” she asked in a low tone; and then, suddenly, a fear, a terror in her voice, as the Flopper’s warning flashed upon her:  “Thornton—­you have seen Thornton?”

“Yes,” he said, surprised a little that she should know; “I saw Thornton a few minutes ago.”

She came toward him now and clutched his arm.

“What have you done?” she cried tensely.  “Answer me!  You—­you met him on your way here?”

It was a moment before Madison replied.  He had schooled himself of course for more than this, yet the words hurt—­that was why she had asked for Thornton—­she was afraid that he had harmed the man.

“No,” he said; “I did not meet him.  I think you must have been longer here on that bench than you imagined—­haven’t you?  He came to my room.”

“Your room!  What for?  Tell me!”

Madison smiled with grave whimsicality.

“To call me a gentleman and repose a trust.”

She stepped back again, uncertainly.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” she said in a strained way.  “And you are talking very strangely.”