A MIRACLE OVERDONE


Helena sat in the Patriarch's room, and her piquant little face was
pursed up into a scowl so daintily grim as to be almost ludicrous. The
Patriarch, in his armchair, had been scrawling words upon the slate all
evening--and she had been wiping them off! He scrawled another now--and
mechanically, without looking at it, by way of answer she pressed his
arm to appease him.

She had been restless all day, and she was restless now. What had
induced her to treat Madison the way she had the night before? Pique,
probably. No; it wasn't pique. It was just getting back at him--and he
deserved it. He hadn't seemed to mind it much, though--he had only
laughed and teased her about it that morning when he had joined the
Patriarch and herself in their walk along the beach.

With her chin in her hands, she began to study the Patriarch through
half closed eyes--deaf and dumb and blind--and somehow it all seemed
excruciatingly funny and she wanted to laugh hysterically. He seemed to
sense the fact that she was looking at him, and, with quick, instant
intuition, he smiled and reached out his hand toward her.

Unconsciously, involuntarily, she drew back--then, recovering herself
the next instant, she took his hand. Now, why had she done that? What
was the matter with her? Again she felt that sudden impulse to scream,
or laugh, or shout, or make some noise--it seemed as though she were
penned in, smothered somehow, imprisoned. What _was_ the matter? Nerves?
She had never known what nerves were in all her life! Couldn't she play
the game and act her part without making a fool of herself? She had