Cyril was very busy all that afternoon; he barely had time to attend Mr. Winston's funeral, which he did however for politeness sake.

It was not a grand funeral by any means and I think it would have broken Helen's heart to see the plain unvarnished coffin which her poor father's remains were deposited in.

When Cyril returned from the ceremony, he settled his accounts with Mrs. Pollard and then proceeded to pack his portmanteau, which piece of business did not take him very long.

He was about to depart from his room, when something lying upon the floor attracted his attention.

It was a water coloured painting of Mr. Winston.

How Cyril's heart smote him, as he gazed at those calm, stern features and mild blue eyes, with so much trust in their orbs.

He hastily shuffled the painting into his pocket, and with something between a groan and a sarcastic laugh, made a rapid retreat down the stair case.

Helen was waiting in the hall.

She looked a very different girl from the bright rosy faced Helen of a week ago.

Her cheeks were white and hollow save for one hectic spot and her great hazel eyes seemed too dark for her face. Her dark hair was limp and uncurled, and her lips were as ashy as her face. She looked a sad little picture, indeed, as she stood there in the hall, with her grey cloak loosly buttoned round her, and her new black crape hat contrasting queerly with her ghost-like countenance.

Cyril's heart of stone was quite touched as he saw her looking so vastly changed.

"Come Helen" he said carresingly as he patted her hair behind, "it feels like old times to be walking with you again."

"Perhaps it does to you" quoth Helen bitterly "but to me it is unbearable."

Cyril said nothing, but gently helped her down the steps. In an hours time they were at the station.

Helen sat on a seat to rest till the train came up, and Cyril went over to the bookstall, keeping close to a remarkably tall foreign looking gentleman who was laughing over Tit Bits.

"Come away," whispered Helen to Cyril "that man reminds me of the two faced villain Mr. Palsey."

"Helen" muttered Cyril between his teeth "be quiet do; please to remember that with all his villainy he is a perfect gentleman."

"Ah" said Helen "you too admit that he is a villain."

Cyril saw he had made a mistake and the hot blood rushed to his face.

"Dear me" he said cooly "I am always blurting out things I dont mean."

Helen was beginning to see through him.

"Cyril" she said faintly "I hope you are not a villain too."

"Why of course I'm not" replied Cyril "come, here is the train."

Helen followed Cyril to a first class carriage, noticed that the foreign looking man, otherwise Mr. Palsey, jumped into a second class department and closed the door with a bang.

"This is a fast train" said Cyril as he got on to the seat.

"Indeed?" replied Helen, and with a deep drawn sigh she placed her bundle on the rack.

"Helen wont you eat your supper," asked Cyril "it is nearly nine o'clock, you must be hungry.

"Very well" replied Helen and she opened her bag.

"What have you got?" asked Cyril eargerly.

"Only a small pot of calf's foot jelly" answered Helen.

"Oh" said Cyril in a dissopointed tone, "why you ought to have had fruit and cold fowl."

"Dont speak to me of cold fowls" cried Helen in disgust and having finished her jelly she sank into repose.

The train was an express and reached Kenalham a little before 10-30.

Helen burst into tears as she stepped on to the platform. "Oh how sad, how sad" she moaned.

The dog cart was waiting for them and Cyril jumped quickly in, helping Helen as he did so.

For ten minutes or more, the cart stopped, and Helen found herself once more on the threshold of her home.