Helen was in no mood for an interview with the stranger, whom, like the duchess, she was inclined to regard as a portent of fate and sacrifice.  She knew her friend’s straitened circumstances, which might make such a sacrifice necessary to insure a competency for her old age, and, as Helen feared also, a provision for herself.  She knew the strange tenderness of this masculine woman, which had survived a husband’s infidelities and a son’s forgetfulness, to be given to her, and her heart sank at the prospect of separation, even while her pride demanded that she should return to her old life again.  Then she wondered if the duchess was right; did she still cherish the hope of meeting Ostrander again?  The tears she had kept back all that day asserted themselves as she flung open the library door and ran across the garden into the myrtle walk.  “In hospital!” The words had been ringing in her ears though Sir James’s complacent speech, through the oddly constrained luncheon, through the half-tender, half-masculine reasoning of her companion.  He had loved her—­he had suffered and perhaps thought her false.  Suddenly she stopped.  At the further end of the walk the ominous stranger whom she wished to avoid was standing looking towards the house.

How provoking!  She glanced again; he was leaning against a tree and was obviously as preoccupied as she was herself.  He was actually sketching the ivy-covered gable of the library.  What presumption!  And he was sketching with his left hand.  A sudden thrill of superstition came over her.  She moved eagerly forward for a better view of him.  No! he had two arms!

But his quick eye had already caught sight of her, and before she could retreat she could see that he had thrown away his sketch-book and was hastening eagerly toward her.  Amazed and confounded she would have flown, but her limbs suddenly refused their office, and as he at last came near her with the cry of “Helen!” upon his lips, she felt herself staggering, and was caught in his arms.

“Thank God,” he said.  “Then she has let you come to me!”

She disengaged herself slowly and dazedly from him and stood looking at him with wondering eyes.  He was bronzed and worn; there was the second arm:  but still it was he.  And with the love, which she now knew he had felt, looking from his honest eyes!

“She has let me come!” she repeated vacantly.  “Whom do you mean?”

“The duchess.”

“The duchess?”

“Yes.”  He stopped suddenly, gazing at her blank face, while his own grew ashy white.  “Helen!  For God’s sake tell me!  You have not accepted him?”

“I have accepted no one,” she stammered, with a faint color rising to her cheeks.  “I do not understand you.”