if Helen would not mind going up. Helen went accordingly, and found Lady Mary standing ready to receive her.

'Good-morning,' Helen said, as she closed the door.

'Good-morning. I asked you to come to me, because I thought we had better not say good-bye in public. Don't let me detain you now. I think the carriage has come round.'

Good-bye, Lady Mary. I only wish to say before I go that I am sorry I spoke to you as I did yesterday. I have no doubt you meant to do what was kind.'

Lady Mary bowed slightly. She was not to be taken in; it was too late now. Helen looked at her, and seeing that she did not intend any further acknowledgment, turned and left the room. She had brought herself to make the apology, but for the moment she repented it. Nothing had been said about the child.

Charles Langley's farewell was more cordial; in fact, it was as warm and affectionate as it could well have been. He kissed Helen, and told her how he wished she could have stayed longer, and begged her to come again whenever she felt inclined. He knew he was safe there, but he meant all he said nevertheless, and Helen knew he meant it, and was really sorry to say goodbye to him. The girls were pleasant enough too. They had been taught to regard Helen with something more than suspicion, and they had held aloof from her at first with a mixture of fascination and fear; but they had failed to detect the cloven hoof. Really the terrible Indian woman was not very different from other people.

Helen soon settled down in London. It was very dreary, living in two or three rooms in a small house in South Kensington; but it was less dreary than going anywhere out of London. Roland came constantly to see her in the evening, and she began to take an interest in his work. She could not live where he did, as it would not have been healthy for the child; and having the child to look after, she could not do much to help him; but she learnt much from him, and her advice and her slender purse were always at his service. A few of her father's Indian friends found her out, and were very kind to her. She did not want to meet any but real friends; but it did her good to see faces she had seen in her happy Indian days, and to hear her father spoken of, as he always was spoken of, with honest affection and regret. They had actually been with her in the dear old house, one or two of them, and could talk about Syntia, and had seen

Guy. It warmed her heart. Then she had her music, and Rex, and above all she had the baby, who was a most beautiful and surprising child, never ill and hardly ever cross, with eyes that became more and more like Guy's every day. She was not therefore wholly without interest and work in life.

As Roland had foreseen, Helen would not accept the allowance offered to her. When he spoke about it, she flushed up and interrupted him: Never, Roland; I would sooner starve than take a farthing of it. I know your father means to be kind, and I don't want to seem ungrateful. Please give him my love and thanks; but I could not do it. Please don't speak to me any more about it.'

The spring passed into summer, and the summer into autumn, and still Helen remained in London. At times she pined for a breath of country air, but she could not make up her mind to go. She did not like leaving Roland, and, moreover, she felt disinclined to face any change or exertion. Better stay where she was, and be quiet.

Helen had been a woman of strong religious feeling and belief, but on the day when Mrs. Aylmer had come to her with the news of Guy's death, her religion had received a heavy shock. She had suddenly found that in her time of need it was no help whatever. She felt that she did not love the God who had dealt so hardly with her, and she had nothing left to pray for. What was the good of prayer if she might not pray for death or for Guy's life? Besides, prayer would not be answered. She had prayed for Guy's life night and day, and the answer had been his murder. If she prayed for her own death, the answer would be long life. As time went on her heart only seemed to grow more cold and numb, and she shrank more and more from all religious observances. Roland tried hard to help her. He had soon found out that she had little or no comfort in such things, and it distressed and puzzled him. He could not understand her weary hopelessness in this respect. It seemed to him inconsistent with her composure and courage and sense. She went to church sometimes to please him, and occasionally it seemed to do her good. The music and the cadence of the old familiar words, and the dim religious light, all tended to soothe and quiet her. But at other times the service seemed to have the opposite effect. She felt she had no right to be there; that she was joining in prayers and praises which she did not feel; that the whole thing was a sham. Then she revolted, and Roland was disappointed

of the victory he hoped he had gained. Altogether he was greatly troubled about her. In his youthful ardour it seemed to him that his new-found panacea of religion ought to be sufficient for everything, and it was a constant wonder to him to find her so insensible to its power. Should not the Lord of all the earth do right? Surely she must know He would not lay this cruel sorrow on her but for her good. She shook her head at his platitudes.

'I have said that to myself

'I know, dear,' she would say. often enough, but it does not help me in the least. I have to bear it, I can't do anything else; but I cannot pretend to be content and thankful.'

He begged her to pray.

‘I will if I can, Ro; but what is the use? I cannot believe now in prayers being answered; and if I do not believe, they will not be answered. You know that.'

'Try.

Faith will come with prayer.'

But she shook her head, and was silent.

At times she even spoke bitterly, as if God had deceived her and mocked her. 'I had been praying so hard, Ro, not only on my knees, but all day in my thoughts, and I had faith. Then Guy's telegram came, and I was so happy and grateful. I did not forget to give thanks. I felt as if I never could thank God enough. For days my whole heart was full of love and thankfulness. And all the time Guy was dead! God had let him be murdered.'

Yet, in spite of all, Roland felt that Helen was true and good. If she was sore and bitter at times in speaking to him about the God who had crushed her heart, it was the bitterness of a noble nature. She still forgave the wrongs that others had done her. She spoke humbly of her own faults, and gently of his mother. She was kind and tender and helpful to all around her. She was never hard or flippant. Surely the rest would come.

He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small.

In the end she would find resignation and peace, if not happiness. Even now at times she seemed to feel more as he would have had her feel. The child seemed to be leading her into it. He was a beautiful boy, good-tempered and strong and handsome, in spite of all his mother's troubles. He and Roland were the best of friends. Helen used to look on sometimes with real happiness in

her eyes as they romped on the floor together; and she was beginning to regain a little colour. Often enough she would turn away with a sigh as her sorrow came back to her; but still at times it was driven off for the moment, and she could be cheerful and bright. She was not five-and-twenty yet.

Then came the final blow.

Baby had learnt to crawl about the floor at a great pace, and even to stand with the help of a chair, when one November morning his mother woke at the sound of a choking cough, and her heart stood still with fear.

It is needless to linger over the story of the next few days. Helen found it easy to pray then. While the child lay before her in its suffering,—the pitiful childish suffering that tears a man's heart to witness, and is a hundred times worse than death to a mother-she prayed incessantly, passionately, that its life might be spared, that her rebellion and ingratitude and want of faith might be forgiven, and that its life might be spared. And once more she prayed in vain. The child grew weaker and weaker, till its little thin hands could no longer be held up to the tortured woman, half maddened with her helplessness. At last there was an unavailing struggle for breath, and then the little hands were still for ever, and the little face lay white and lifeless on the pillow.

Helen and Roland stood by the side of the grave when the service was read. It was raining heavily, and the wind was so strong that he was unable to keep her sheltered from the wet. She was quiet and silent until they began to lower the coffin. Then she stepped forward with a sudden cry-'No, no!' and stopped, and was quiet again.

They drove back together, Helen still tearless and white, with her mouth set close. Roland tried to comfort her in his honest clumsy way, but it was useless. She seemed hardly to hear what he said.

At last, when they were near home, he took her hand and begged her to speak. 'For God's sake, Helen,' he said, 'try to say it. It will help you. You will say it in the end. Say it and take the relief it will bring you. Say, "Thy will be

now,

done."

She took her hand away and shook her head in silence. 'Never,' she thought,—' never, as long as I live!'

CHAPTER XLII

ILLNESS

THE day after the funeral Helen went again to her child's grave. It was still raining hard, and everything looked unspeakably desolate; and for the second time she came back cold and wet. That night she was seized with acute pains in the side and shoulders, and next morning she was forced to send for a doctor.

The illness that followed was very nearly fatal. She had been thoroughly overtried during the past year; and, lowered as she was by want of sleep and food, the wet and exposure had been too much for her. The torture of pleurisy was increased by pneumonia, and for some weeks her life lay trembling in the balance. At times she was delirious, and then she suffered cruelly from the idea that something she had done had been the cause of her child's death. It was pitiful to watch her painfully striving hour after hour to see the face of the spectre which mocked and eluded her. When her mind cleared it was there,the thought that if she had sold the child to Lady Mary it might be alive. Then relief came; but with fever and delirium the idea assumed its spectral shape again, and she began once more the eager agonised chase.

At last youth and a sound constitution asserted themselves, and Helen began to gain strength; but her recovery was slow. She had no wish to get well, to have life without any of the things which make life worth having. Getting well meant taking up her burden again, and she dreaded it unfeignedly. Roland tried hard to rouse her, but she seemed beyond rousing. She lay very patiently, doing all she was told to do, but showing no interest in anything. She hardly seemed to listen if he read to her, though she always thanked him. She never smiled now; and she was dreadfully white and thin, with very big eyes, clearer