it is strange for me perhaps to talk like this—but it is in my heart. I would like to think of you both engaged in this wonderful work together."
Again, through exhaustion, Mrs. Thornton stopped—and Helena, from gazing at the other's pallid countenance in a sort of involuntary, frightened fascination, dropped her head suddenly upon the bed-spread and hid her face.
Mrs. Thornton's hand found Helena's head and rested upon it.
"I would like to see Robert happy," she murmured, after a little silence. "Riches do not make happiness—they are so sad and empty a thing when the heart is empty. I know he would be happy with you—he has spoken so much of you lately—perhaps—perhaps—"
Mrs. Thornton's voice was very faint—the words reached Helena plainly enough as words, but they seemed to reach her consciousness in an unreal, unnatural, blunted way, coma-like—pregnant of significance, yet with the significance itself elusive, evading her.
"A good woman," whispered Mrs. Thornton, "I have tried to be a good woman—but—but my life, our wealth, our position has made it so artificial. You have never known these things, dear—and so you are just as God made you—a good woman, so pure, so wonderful in your freshness and your innocence. Robert's life has been so barren—so barren. I would like to know that—that it will not always be so. Oh, if it could only be that you and he should carry on
