"The weather is so doleful," she hastened to add, "that I should think that even philanthropy might lose its power of amusing."
"Cousin Helen," returned he, with some hesitation, "I do not like to hear you speak in that way of what is part of my life work."
She smiled; then sighed and shook her head.
"My dear Philip," replied she, "I had certainly no intention of wounding you; and if you'll let me say so, I think you are going out of your way to find cause of offense. Philanthropy isn't a thing so sacred that it is not to be spoken of with a smile."
"No; but"—
"But what?"
He did not answer at once. He put down his empty cup absently, and then sat staring into the fire as if he were trying there to read the solution of the riddle of existence.
"Come," Helen observed, after waiting for a little, "you have something on your mind. What is it? It will do you good to tell it, even if I'm not clever enough to help you."
"I am sure that you could help me," he began eagerly; and then in a changed voice he added, "if anybody could."
She left her place behind the tea-table and came nearer to him, sitting directly before the fire. The light fell on her convincing face and on her wavy hair. She folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him.