being ground on a whetstone, piercing and disturbing, broke her reveries. Helène sat up staring into the leafy tangle which screened her refuge. What could it be? There it was again. It was only a locust, had Helène but known it, but its arrival had broken the spell; her retreat became once more but the hot, sweltering clearing; the buzzing of the flies became an annoyance, the bees a threat. She was again alone—a stranger among a strange people.
Oh, no—not alone! There was always her good Margy. No one could take her from her. And there were her own thoughts and memories. No one could steal them from her. And—autumn would soon be here—the day of reckoning and, perhaps, the day of promise, also—the day when her letter must be written and sent. But her first duty was to Margaret. She must help her dear friend and protector to get well. As soon as they were again settled at home, she surely would set to work