sensitiveness were again in the wrong. James did no more. You could not
expect him to have done more. Mrs. Rathbone, like many widows of
successful men, was "left poorly off." But she "managed." Once, five
years before the scene on the park terrace, Mrs. Rathbone and James had
encountered one another by hazard on the platform of Knype Railway
Station. Destiny hesitated while Susan waited for James's recognition
and James waited for Susan's recognition. Both of them waited too long.
Destiny averted its head and drew back, and the relatives passed on
their ways without speaking. James observed with interest a girl of
twenty by Susan's side--her daughter. This daughter of Susan's was now
sharing the park bench with him. Hence the hidden drama of their
meeting, of his speech, of her reply.

"And what's your name, lass?"

"Helen."

"Helen what?"

"Helen, great-stepuncle," said she.

He laughed; and she laughed also. The fact was that he had been aware
of her name, vaguely. It had come to him, on the wind, or by some bird's
wing, although none of his acquaintances had been courageous enough to
speak to him about the affair of Susan for quite twenty years past.
Longshaw is as far from Bursley, in some ways, as San Francisco from New
York. There are people in Bursley who do not know the name of the Mayor
of Longshaw--who make a point of _not_ knowing it. Yet news travels even
from Longshaw to Bursley, by mysterious channels; and Helen Rathbone's
name had so travelled. James Ollerenshaw was glad that she was just