Part 6 (1/2)

”It is a mirror conscience,” she answered, looking back at him soberly; and then, from the infection of surprise in his eyes, a gathering, quizzical smile spread until it broke in another ripple of laughter.

”That is a new kind of conscience, Helen. Explain!” said her sister.

”To you, too, Henriette?” said Helen. ”I've only just found it, myself.”

”Apparently it is in the backs of mirrors,” murmured Henriette.

”I don't blame Henriette for never looking at the back, do you?” Helen asked Phil.

Phil thought a little revenge was due him for having a mirror set in front of him for the purpose of a comparison of physiognomies.

”Hardly. I envy the mirror!” he said, turning to her. But she had dropped her gaze to her coffee cup and took a deliberate sip before looking up.

”It is always pleasant to say foolish things nicely,” she remarked.

”But he is sincere. If he weren't it would be accusing him of blindness, wouldn't it, cousin?” put in Helen mischievously.

”Absolutely!” he managed to say, conscious that he was not having much revenge and that things were getting brittle; while Mrs. Sanford, pretending to smile, could not quite follow the nimble conversation.

Helen laughed again to cover the misadventure of her unruly tongue, and Phil laughed, too, though he did not exactly know why. Henriette was taking another deliberate sip of coffee. They were not aware of the vicar's return until he stood behind Phil's chair.

”Look again, cousin!” Helen bade him.

He was of a mind not to, but could not control his curiosity. The vicar was holding against the frame beside the face of the ancestor a photograph of the statue in the square at Longfield.

”Your father sent it to me,” he explained.

”Not a double, but a treble!” exclaimed Helen.

”It's the way of the blood,” continued the vicar. ”It skips generations, but it's always there--early in the seventeenth century, late in the eighteenth, and now early in the twentieth.”

”But the one in the eighteenth was a wicked rebel, disloyal to our German king!” Helen put in again, yielding to temptation. ”Old Thomas, there, would have disowned him.”

”Helen!” admonished her aunt. ”It was only a family quarrel.”

”But I believe that old Thomas would have been on George Was.h.i.+ngton's right hand,” said Helen. ”He looks it.”

Meanwhile, Phil was looking at the three faces, so similar that he might well have been in doubt which was his own. If he were expected to rise and make a fitting speech it was beyond his sense of humour.

”Help! help! Too much ancestor!” he cried out; and half rising he seized Helen's hands, pus.h.i.+ng the mirror away at the same time that he held her at arms' length. ”You began it!”

She was flus.h.i.+ng to the roots of her hair. How strong he was! How silly she had been!

”No, the ancestor! Ancestors begin everything for everybody!” she retorted. ”And if you will let go of me I will put the mirror away.”

”We all beg your pardon for embarra.s.sing you. It was not a plot and we are all very interested,” said the vicar, his eyes twinkling.

The photograph of the Revolutionary hero which her uncle laid on the table Helen took up; and the change of subject so earnestly desired by every one she wrought in another impulse.

”What do ancestors count,” she said, ”beside a piece of work like this!