Harkless passed the bushes and stepped out into this gold brilliance. Then
he uttered a cry and stopped.
Helen was standing beside the hydrangeas, with both hands against her
cheeks and her eyes fixed on the ground. She had run away as far as she
could run; there were high fences extending down to the creek on each
side, and the water was beyond.
"_You_!" he said. "_You--you_!"
She did not lift her eyes, but began to move away from him with little
backward steps. When she reached the bench on the bank, she spoke with a
quick intake of breath and in a voice he scarcely heard. It was the merest
whisper, and her words came so slowly that sometimes minutes separated
them.
"Can you--will you keep me--on the 'Herald'?"
"Keep you----"
"Will you--let me--help?"
He came near her. "I don't understand. Is it you--you--who are here
again?"
"Have you--forgiven me? You know now why I wouldn't--resign? You forgive
my--that telegram?"
"What telegram?"
"That one that came to you--this morning."
"_Your_ telegram?"
"Yes."
"Did you send me one?"
"Yes."
"It did not come to me."
"Yes--it did."
"But there--What was it about?"
"It was signed," she said, "it was signed--" She paused and turned half
way, not lifting the downcast lashes; her hand, laid upon the arm of the
bench, was shaking; she put it behind her.
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