“You have other physicians here,” he said to Wilford, who objected to his leaving.  “Dr. Craig will do as well as I.”

Wilford admitted that he might; but it was with a sinking heart that he saw Morris depart, and then went to Katy, who began to grow very restless and uneasy, bidding him go away and send Dr. Morris back.  It was in vain that they administered the medicine just as Morris had directed.  Katy grew constantly worse, until Mrs. Lennox asked that another doctor be called.  But to this Wilford did not listen.  Fear of exposure and censure were stronger than his fear for Katy’s life, which seemed balancing upon a thread as that long night and the next day went by.  Three times Wilford telegraphed for Morris, and it was with unfeigned joy that he welcomed him back at last, and heard that he had so arranged his business now as to stay with Katy while the danger lasted.

With a monotonous sameness the days now came and went, people still shunning the house as if the plague was there.  Once Bell Cameron came around to call on Helen, holding her breath as she passed through the hall, and never asking to go near Katy’s room.  Two or three times, too, Mrs. Banker’s carriage stood at the door, and Mrs. Banker herself came in, seeming surprised when she met Helen and appearing so cool and distant that the latter could scarcely keep back her tears as she guessed the cause.  Mark never came, but from the window Helen saw him riding by with Juno, who kept her face turned toward him, as if in close and confidential chat.

“They were engaged,” Esther said, adding that “he was about joining the army as first lieutenant in a company composed of the finest young men in the city.”

Helen doubted if this were true, until one day, when driving with her mother, she met him arrayed in his new uniform, looking so handsome and proud.  He, too, was driving with a brother officer, and as he passed he lifted his cap in token of recognition; but the olden look which Helen remembered so well, and which had been wont to make her pulses thrill with a most exquisite delight, was gone, and Helen felt more than ever the wide gulf some hand had built between them.  The next she heard was from Mrs. Banker, whose face looked pale and worn as she incidentally remarked:  “I shall be very lonely now that Mark is gone.  He left me to-day for Washington.”

There were tears on the mother’s face, and her lip quivered as she tried to keep them back, looking from the window into the street instead of at her companion, who, overcome with the rush of feeling which swept over her, laid her face on the sofa arm and sobbed aloud.

“Why, Helen!  Miss Lennox, I am surprised!  I had supposed—­I was not aware—­I did not think you would care,” Mrs. Banker exclaimed, coming closer to Helen, who stammered out:  “I beg you will excuse me, I cannot help it.  I care for all our soldiers.  It seems so terrible.”

At the words “I care for all the soldiers,” a shadow of disappointment flitted over Mrs. Banker’s face.  She knew her son had offered himself and been refused, as she supposed, and she believed, too, that Helen had given publicity to the affair, feeling justly indignant at this breach of confidence and lack of delicacy in one whom she had liked so much and whom she still liked in spite of the wounded pride which had prompted her to seem so cold and distant.