She was indeed no ghost. Some instinct told him how to deal with her, and when he insisted on her humanity, her body thrilled in answer and agreement, and with each kiss and each insistence she became more his own; yet she was thrall less to the impulses of her youth than to some age-old willingness to serve him who possessed her. But her life had mental complications, for she dreaded in Zebedee the disloyalty which she reluctantly meted out to him when George had her in his arms. She would not have Zebedee love another woman, and she longed for assurance of his devotion, but she could not pass the barrier he had set up; she could not try to pass it without another and crueller disloyalty to both men. Her body was faithful to George and her mind to Zebedee, and the two fought against each other and wearied her.
The signs of strain were only in her eyes; her body had grown more beautiful, and when Miriam arrived on a short visit to the moor, she stopped in the doorway to exclaim, "But you're different! Why are you different?"
"It is a long time since you went away," Helen said slowly. "Centuries."
"Not to me! The time has flown." She laughed at her recollections. "And, anyhow, it's only a few months, and you have changed."
"I expect it is my clothes," Helen said calmly. "They must look queer to you."
"They do. But nice. I've brought some new ones for you. I think you'll soon be prettier than I am. Think of that!"
They had each other by the hand and looked admiringly in each other's face, remembering small peculiarities they had half forgotten: there was the soft hair on Helen's temples, trying, as Zebedee said, to curl; there was the little tilt to Miriam's eyebrows, giving her that look of some one not quite human, more readily moved to mischief than to kindness, and never to be held at fault.
"Yes, it's centuries," Helen said.
"It's only a day!"
"Then you have been happy," Helen said, letting out a light sigh of content.