Whatever were the reason, this poor, dear Helen never looked so sweetly.  Her plainly parted brown hair, her meek, blue eyes, her cheek just a little tinged with color, the almost sad simplicity of her dress, and that look he knew so well,—­so full of cheerful patience, so sincere, that he had trusted her from the first moment as the believers of the larger half of Christendom trust the Blessed Virgin,—­Mr. Bernard took this all in at a glance, and felt as pleased as if it had been his own sister Dorothea Elizabeth that he was looking at.  As for Dudley Veneer, Mr. Bernard could not help being struck by the animated expression of his countenance.  It certainly showed great kindness, on his part, to pay so much attention to this quiet girl, when he had the thunder-and-lightning Widow on the other side of him.

Mrs. Marilla Rowens did not know what to make of it.  She had made her tea-party expressly for Mr. Dudley Veneer.  She had placed him just as she wanted, between herself and a meek, delicate woman who dressed in gray, wore a plain breastpin with hair in it, who taught a pack of girls up there at the school, and looked as if she were born for a teacher,—­the very best foil that she could have chosen; and here was this man, polite enough to herself, to be sure, but turning round to that very undistinguished young person as if he rather preferred her conversation of the two!

The truth was that Dudley Veneer and Helen Darley met as two travellers might meet in the desert, wearied, both of them, with their long journey, one having food, but no water, the other water, but no food.  Each saw that the other had been in long conflict with some trial; for their voices were low and tender, as patiently borne sorrow and humbly uttered prayers make every human voice.  Through these tones, more than by what they said, they came into natural sympathetic relations with each other.  Nothing could be more unstudied.  As for Dudley Venner, no beauty in all the world could have so soothed and magnetized him as the very repose and subdued gentleness which the Widow had thought would make the best possible background for her own more salient and effective attractions.  No doubt, Helen, on her side, was almost too readily pleased with the confidence this new acquaintance she was making seemed to show her from the very first.  She knew so few men of any condition!  Mr. Silas Peckham:  he was her employer, and she ought to think of him as well as she could; but every time she thought of him it was with a shiver of disgust.  Mr. Bernard Langdon:  a noble young man, a true friend, like a brother to her,—­God bless him, and send him some young heart as fresh as his own!  But this gentleman produced a new impression upon her, quite different from any to which she was accustomed.  His rich, low tones had the strangest significance to her; she felt sure he must have lived through long experiences, sorrowful like her own.  Elsie’s father!  She looked into his dark