when another woman would have wept and pleaded.  And it infused into her soul something—­it was cruel now to call it malice—­which was still and watchful and dangerous, which waited its opportunity, and then shot like an arrow from its bow out of the coil of brooding premeditation.  Even those who had never seen the white scars on Dick Venner’s wrist, or heard the half-told story of her supposed attempt to do a graver mischief, knew well enough by looking at her that she was one of the creatures not to be tampered with,—­silent in anger and swift in vengeance.

Helen could not return to the bedside at once after this communication.  It was with altered eyes that she must look on the poor girl, the victim of such an unheard-of fatality.  All was explained to her now.  But it opened such depths of solemn thought in her awakened consciousness, that it seemed as if the whole mystery of human life were coming up again before her for trial and judgment.  “Oh,” she thought, “if, while the will lies sealed in its fountain, it may be poisoned at its very source, so that it shall flow dark and deadly through its whole course, who are we that we should judge our fellow-creatures by ourselves?” Then came the terrible question, how far the elements themselves are capable of perverting the moral nature:  if valor, and justice, and truth, the strength of man and the virtue of woman, may not be poisoned out of a race by the food of the Australian in his forest, by the foul air and darkness of the Christians cooped up in the “tenement-houses” close by those who live in the palaces of the great cities?

She walked out into the garden, lost in thought upon these dark and deep matters.  Presently she heard a step behind her, and Elsie’s father came up and joined her.  Since his introduction to Helen at the distinguished tea-party given by the Widow Rowens, and before her coming to sit with Elsie, Mr. Dudley Venner had in the most accidental way in the world met her on several occasions:  once after church, when she happened to be caught in a slight shower and he insisted on holding his umbrella over her on her way home;—­once at a small party at one of the mansion-houses, where the quick-eyed lady of the house had a wonderful knack of bringing people together who liked to see each other;—­perhaps at other times and places; but of this there is no certain evidence.

They naturally spoke of Elsie, her illness, and the aspect it had taken.  But Helen noticed in all that Dudley Venner said about his daughter a morbid sensitiveness, as it seemed to her, an aversion to saying much about her physical condition or her peculiarities,—­a wish to feel and speak as a parent should, and yet a shrinking, as if there were something about Elsie which he could not bear to dwell upon.  She thought she saw through all this, and she could interpret it all charitably.  There were circumstances about his daughter which recalled the great sorrow of his life; it was not strange that this perpetual reminder should in some degree have modified his feelings as a father.  But what a life he must have been leading for so many years, with this perpetual source of distress which he could not name!  Helen knew well enough, now, the meaning of the sadness which had left such traces in his features and tones, and it made her feel very kindly and compassionate towards him.