“Helen!” he whispered, as he leaned over and kissed her cheek.  “Helen, are you ill?”

“Will!  It was burnt.  Will!” she cried, starting up, and looking wildly around her.  “Oh, Walter!  I am so glad you are here at last.  I have had a frightful dream.”

“Helen, you are ill, I fear.  What means this unwonted confusion;—­have you been out, and just come in?  What is the meaning of it all—­and what is this?” he said, while he stooped down to pick up the crystal flacon which had dropped out of its case on the floor.

“Dear Walter, don’t open it, for the world!  It is a cosmetic.  I am too white, sometimes, and touch my cheeks with it,” exclaimed Helen, starting up; “do give it to me.”

“No, Helen; my wife must be real in all things.  I do not approve of artificial coloring; so, to save you from temptation, I shall put it out of your reach!” replied her husband, throwing the flacon out into the street.  A lean, hungry dog, prowling about in search of food, rushed to the spot—­hoping, no doubt, that it was a morsel from the rich man’s table—­but no sooner had his nose touched the spot, then, uttering a loud howl, he fell dead.

“Helen! explain this mystery!” he exclaimed, grasping her hand, and drawing her to the window.  “Are your cosmetics all poisons as deadly as that?”

“Walter! this is horrible!  Poison?  Why, Walter, it might have killed me!” she gasped, hiding her pallid face in his bosom.

“Helen, answer me, by the love and trust I bear you, did you know that the contents of that flacon were poisonous?  Look up, dear Helen, and answer me, yes or no.”

“No, Walter—­on my honor, no.  You have saved me from a horrible death,” she replied, raising her head, and looking, with a strong effort into his eyes.

Thus was Helen driven, with scourges, by her task-master, the great tempter of souls, into slough after slough, from which, there was but one escape, and that lay through a rugged way, called REPENTANCE.  But repentance, to her vision, was like a shoreless ocean, or a fierce deity to whose exacting nature she must sacrifice all that she held dear on earth, or perish.  But her husband’s love and esteem—­her ill-gotten riches—­her position—­her luxuries!  Could she live without them? If she could repent without making restitution, she would.  But she well knew that such repentance would be fruitless.  And thus, while, to the world, she moved calmly in her proud beauty, and was envied by the miserable, for the apparent happiness and splendor of her lot, a fierce beast was tugging at her heart-strings, more savage than that which tore the vitals of the boy of Lacedaemon.  It was remorse.

“Helen!” said Walter Jerrold, calmly, “have you any grief or mystery hidden from me, my wife?  I am like a helpless child, now in your hands; you may deceive me, and triumph in your concealment—­but do not—­do not, Helen, for God’s sake, do it.  Open your whole heart to me.  I love you well enough to lift the burden, if there be one, from it, to my strong shoulders; and if—­if—­if—­you have ever erred, let me hear it from no lips but your own.”