As for Helen, she was astonished and confused at what she had discovered. She had always been led to believe that Armstrong was her uncle, and had more than once reproached herself for the dislike she could not help entertaining for him. Now he had himself disclaimed the relationship; and Helen was left to conjecture fruitlessly who and what she was. IV. We must carry the reader back some nine or ten years. In front of a pleasant country residence, a child of three years sat on the grass, plucking the flowers that grew at her feet, and then tossing them from her. Ever and anon she would utter a cry of childish delight, as a gaudily-painted butterfly flew past her, and would stretch out her little hands to arrest its flight; but the wanderer of the air found no difficulty in eluding the tiny hands of the child. At length, as if weary of her pastime, she rose from her grassy seat, and tottled towards the open gate, out of which she passed, and strayed along the path by the roadside, pausing where fancy prompted. Her disappearance had not been noted by those in the house, partly because their attention was occupied by a tall, swarthy woman, with fierce black eyes, who was at that moment asking, or rather demanding, alms of the mistress of the house. “We are not in the habit,” said the latter, “of giving money; but whatever food you may require will be cheerfully given.” “I don’t want any food,” said the woman, abruptly. “You talk as if victuals was the only thing one could need. I have had something to eat already. I want money, I tell you.” “Then why don’t you work for it?” asked the lady, somewhat offended at the boldness of her speech. “Because I don’t see why I should work my life out while others are living in plenty. There are plenty of fine ladies who wouldn’t lift their fingers if it was to save a life. Am I not as good as they? Why, then, should they fare any better than I?” “That I do not pretend to say. I only know that he is most happy who strives to content himself with that station in which the Almighty has placed him.” “Oh! it is all very well for those to talk of being contented who have every thing to make them so. Very praiseworthy it is, to be sure!” said the woman, laughing scornfully. The violence of her language increased to such an extent, that Mrs. Gregory—for it was she—found it necessary to order her to leave the house. She did so, but not without many imprecations. As she strode along with hasty steps, she espied by the roadside a little girl, holding in her hand a flower that she had just plucked. “Isn’t it _pitty_?” said the child, holding it up. A thought struck the woman, and she arrested her steps. “Where do you live, little girl?” she asked, softening her voice as much as practicable, so as not to alarm the child. “I live there,” said the little girl, pointing to the house the woman had just quitted.