could return there, without passing through the gates of sorrow,
infirmity, and age! But I thought you were content with England. Why so
eager to leave it? Violante, you are unkind to us,--to Helen, who
already loves you so well." As Harley spoke, Helen rose from the piano,
and approaching Violante, placed her hand caressingly on the Italian's
shoulder. Violante shivered, and shrunk away. The eyes both of Harley
and Helen followed her. Harley's eyes were very grave and thoughtful.

"Is she not changed--your friend?" said he, looking down.

"Yes, lately; much changed. I fear there is something on her mind,--
I know not what."

"Ah," muttered Harley, "it may be so; but at your age and hers, nothing
rests on the mind long. Observe, I say the mind,--the heart is more
tenacious."

Helen sighed softly, but deeply.

"And therefore," continued Harley, half to himself, "we can detect when
something is on the mind,--some care, some fear, some trouble. But when
the heart closes over its own more passionate sorrow, who can discover,
who conjecture? Yet you at least, my pure, candid Helen,--you might
subject mind and heart alike to the fabled window of glass."

"Oh, no!" cried Helen, involuntarily.

"Oh, yes! Do not let me think that you have one secret I may not know,
or one sorrow I may not share. For, in our relationship, that would be
deceit."