And yet, at length, something of the fervour and the passion of his love struck upon her soul and arrested her attention.  There is something so touching and so pitiful in that first boy-love that asks for nothing in return, craves for no other reward than to be suffered to exist; that amongst all the selfish and half-hearted passions of older and wiser men, it must needs elicit some response of gratitude at least, if not of answering love, in the heart of the woman who is the object of such rare devotion.

It dawned at length upon Vera, as she listened to his fervent pleading, and as she saw the tears that rose in poor Denis’s earnest eyes, and the traces of deep emotion on his smooth, boyish face, that here was, perchance, the one utterly pure and noble love that had ever been laid at her feet.

There arose a sentiment of pity in her heart, and a vague wonder as to his grief.  Did he suffer, she asked herself, as she herself suffered?

“Vera, Vera, I only ask you to be my wife.  I do not ask you for your heart; only give me your dear self.  Only let me be always with you to brighten your life and to take care of you.”

How was she to resist such absolute unselfishness?

“Oh, Denis, how good you are to me!” burst from her lips.  “How can I take you at your word?  Do you not know that my heart is gone from me?  I have no love to give you.”

“Yes, yes, darling,” he said, quickly, pressing her hand to his lips.  “Do not pain yourself by speaking of it.  I have guessed it.  I have always seemed to know it.  But it is hopeless, is it not?  And I—­I would so gladly take you away and comfort you if I could.”

And so, in the end, she half yielded to him.  What else was she to do?  She gave him a sort of promise.

“If I can, it shall be as you wish,” she said; “but give me till to-morrow night.  I will think of it all day, and if you will come here again to-morrow evening, I will answer you.  Give me one more day—­only one,” she repeated, with a dull reiteration, out of her utter weariness.

“One day will soon be gone,” he said, joyfully, as he bade her good night.

Alas, how little he knew what that day was to bring forth!

That night the heavens were overcast with heavy clouds, and torrents of rain poured down upon the face of the earth, and peal after peal of thunder boomed through the heavy heated air.  Helen could not sleep; she rose, feverish and unrested from her husband’s side, and paced wildly and miserably about the room.  Then she went to the window and drew back the curtain, and looked out upon the storm-driven world.  The clouds racked wildly across the sky; the trees bent and swayed before the howling wind; the rain beat in floods upon the ground; yet greater and fiercer still was the tempest that raged in Helen Kynaston’s heart.  Hatred, jealousy, and malice strove and struggled within her, and something direr still—­a terror that she could not quench nor stifle; for late that night her husband had said to her suddenly, without a word of warning or preparation—­