"Is she not changed—your friend?" said he, looking down.
"Yes, lately; much changed. I fear there is something on her mind,—
I know not what."
"Ah," muttered Harley, "it may be so; but at your age and hers, nothing rests on the mind long. Observe, I say the mind,—the heart is more tenacious."
Helen sighed softly, but deeply.
"And therefore," continued Harley, half to himself, "we can detect when something is on the mind,—some care, some fear, some trouble. But when the heart closes over its own more passionate sorrow, who can discover, who conjecture? Yet you at least, my pure, candid Helen,—you might subject mind and heart alike to the fabled window of glass."
"Oh, no!" cried Helen, involuntarily.
"Oh, yes! Do not let me think that you have one secret I may not know, or one sorrow I may not share. For, in our relationship, that would be deceit."
He pressed her hand with more than usual tenderness as he spoke, and shortly afterwards left the house.
And all that night Helen felt like a guilty thing,—more wretched even than Violante.