“But what’s she afraid of? It—it must be me.”

Lady Warren’s next words, however, gave the lie to this exciting possibility. Her voice strengthened.

“Go away,” she shouted, in the bass voice of a man.

Startled by the change, Helen turned and ran from the invalid, expecting every second, to feel the crash of a bottle on her head. But, before she reached the door, she was recalled by a shout.

“You little fool, come back.”

Quivering with expectation at this new turn, Helen crossed to the bed. The old lady began to talk in such a faint, whine, that her words were almost inaudible.

“Get out of the house. Too many trees.”

“Trees?” repeated Helen, as her mind slipped back to the last tree in the plantation.

“Trees,” repeated Lady Warren. “They stretch out their branches and knock at the window. They try to get in… . When it’s dark, they move. Creeping up to the house… . Go away.”

As she listened, Helen felt a sense of kinship with the old woman. It was strange that she, too, had stood at the window, at twilight, and watched the invasion of the misted shrubs. Of course, it was all imagination; but that fact alone indicated a common touch of “Mr. Poke.”

In any case, she wanted to use the trees as a liaison bebtween Lady Warren and herself. It was one of her small failings that, although she liked to succeed in her own line, she liked still better to make a success of someone else’s job. She proceeded to try and make a conquest of Lady Warren.

“How strange,” she said. “I’ve thought exactly the same as you.”

Unfortunately, Lady Warren resented her words as im pertinence.

“I don’t want to hear your thoughts,” Lady Warren whined. “Don’t dare to presume, because I’m helpless… . What’s your name?”

“Helen Capel,” was the dejected reply.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Liar. Nineteen.”

Helen was startled by her acumen, as her employers had always accepted her official age.’ “It’s not exactly a lie,” she explained. “I feel I’m entitled to put on my age, because I’m old in experience. I began to earn my own living when I was fourteen.”

Lady Warren showed no signs of being touched.

“Why?” she asked. “Are you a love-child?”

“Certainly not,” replied Helen indignantly. “My parents were married in church. But they couldn’t provide for me. They were unlucky.”,

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re lucky.”

In spite of her subordinate position, Helen always found the necessary courage to protest when any vital principle of her Creed was assaulted.

“No,” Helen protested. “Life is wonderful. I always wake up, just glad to be alive.”

Lady Warren grunted before she continued her catechism.

“Drink?” she asked.

“No.”

“Any men?”

“No chance—worse luck.”,

Lady Warren did not join in her laugh. Stared at Helen so rigidly that the black slits of her eyes appeared to congeal. Some scheme was being spun amid the cobwebs of her mind.

The clock ticked away the silence and the fire fell in, with a sudden spurt of flame.’

“Shall I put on more coal?” asked Helen, anxious to break the spell.

“No. Give me back my teeth.”

The request was so startling that Helen, positively jumped.