"You?"
Then he looked at her.
And at his look she hid her face in her bent arm. That new sensation, that cleansing fire of shame, swept over her again with its intolerable scorch.
"No! No! I am going to be married; I—"
The front door closed behind him. Helena, alone, crouched, sobbing, on the floor.
But the Lord was not in the fire.
CHAPTER XXVII
"Is old Mr. Wright worse?" Martha called downstairs, when the doctor let himself in at midnight.
"No."
"Well, where on earth have you been?" Mrs. King demanded. She was leaning over the banisters in her gray flannel dressing-gown, her candle in its hooded candlestick, throwing a flickering light on her square, anxious face.