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him, I guess likely, but she was with Cap'n Lote and Olive most of the time.Rachel says she never made a fuss, you understand, just was there and helped and was quiet and soft-spoken and capable and--and comfortin', that's about the word, I guess.Rachel always thought a sight of Helen afore that, but since then she swears by her."That evening--or, rather, that night, for they did not leave the sitting room until after twelve--Mrs.Snow heard her grandson walking the floor of his room, and called to ask if he was sick.

"I'm all right, Grandmother," he called in reply."Just taking a little exercise before turning in, that's all.Sorry if Idisturbed you."

The exercise was, as a matter of fact, almost entirely mental, the pacing up and down merely an unconscious physical accompaniment.

Albert Speranza was indulging in introspection.He was reviewing and assorting his thoughts and his impulses and trying to determine just what they were and why they were and whither they were tending.It was a mental and spiritual picking to pieces and the result was humiliating and in its turn resulted in a brand-new determination.

Ever since his meeting with Helen, a meeting which had been quite unpremeditated, he had thought of but little except her.During his talk with her in the parsonage sitting room he had been--there was no use pretending to himself that it was otherwise--more contented with the world, more optimistic, happier, than he had been for months, it seemed to him for years.Even while he was speaking to her of his uneasiness and dissatisfaction he was dimly conscious that at that moment he was less uneasy and less dissatisfied, conscious that the solid ground was beneath his feet at last, that here was the haven after the storm, here was--He pulled up sharply.This line of thought was silly, dangerous, wicked.What did it mean? Three days before, only three days, he had left Madeline Fosdick, the girl whom he had worshiped, adored, and who had loved him.Yes, there was no use pretending there, either; he and Madeline HAD loved each other.Of course he realized now that their love had nothing permanently substantial about it.It was the romance of youth, a dream which they had shared together and from which, fortunately for both, they had awakened in time.And of course he realized, too, that the awakening had begun long, long before the actual parting took place.But nevertheless only three days had elapsed since that parting, and now-- What sort of a man was he?

Was he like his father? Was it what Captain Zelotes used to call the "Portygee streak" which was now cropping out? The opera singer had been of the butterfly type--in his later years a middle-aged butterfly whose wings creaked somewhat--but decidedly a flitter from flower to flower.As a boy, Albert had been aware, in an uncertain fashion, of his father's fondness for the sex.Now, older, his judgment of his parent was not as lenient, was clearer, more discerning.He understood now.Was his own "Portygee streak," his inherited temperament, responsible for his leaving one girl on a Tuesday and on Friday finding his thoughts concerned so deeply with another?

Well, no matter, no matter.One thing was certain--Helen should never know of that feeling.He would crush it down, he would use his common-sense.He would be a decent man and not a blackguard.

For he had had his chance and had tossed it away.What would she think of him now if he came to her after Madeline had thrown him over--that is what Mrs.Fosdick would say, would take pains that every one else should say, that Madeline had thrown him over--what would Helen think of him if he came to her with a second-hand love like that?

And of course she would not think of him as a lover at all.Why should she? In the boy and girl days she had refused to let him speak of such a thing.She was his friend, a glorious, a wonderful friend, but that was all, all she ever dreamed of being.

Well, that was right; that was as it should be.He should be thankful for such a friend.He was, of course.And he would concentrate all his energies upon his work, upon his writing.

That was it, that was it.Good, it was settled!

So he went to bed and, eventually, to sleep.