"I should be false to Mittie should I pretend to love her now, when my whole heart and soul are yours," exclaimed the young man, vehemently. "I can no more resist the impulse that draws me to you, than I can stay the beatings of this wildly throbbing heart. Love, Helen, cannot be forced, neither can it be restrained." "I know nothing of love," cried Helen, pressing on her homeward path, with a terror she dared not betray, "nor do I wish to know--but one thing I do know--I feel nothing but dread in your presence. You make me wretched and miserable. I am sure if you have the feelings of a gentleman you will leave me after telling you this." "The more you urge me to flee, the more firmly am I rooted to your side. You do not know your own heart, Helen. You are so young and guileless. It is not dread of me, but your sister's displeasure that makes you tremble with fear. You cannot fear me, Helen--you _must_, you _will_, you _shall_ love me." Helen was now wrought up to a pitch of excitement and terror that was perfectly uncontrollable. Every word uttered by Clinton seemed burned in--on her brain, not her heart, and she pressed both hands on her forehead, as if to put out the flame. "Oh! that Arthur Hazleton were here," she exclaimed, "he would protect me." "No danger shall reach you while I am near you, Helen," cried Clinton, again endeavoring to take her hand in his--but Helen darted into a side path and ran as fleetly and wildly as when she believed the glittering, fiery-eyed viper was pursuing her. Sometimes she caught hold of the slender trunk of a tree to give her a quicker momentum, and sometimes she sprang over brooklets, which, in a calmer moment, she would have deemed impossible. She felt that Clinton had slackened his pursuit as she drew near her home, but she never paused till she found herself in her own chamber, where, sinking into a chair, she burst into a passion of tears such as she had never wept before. Shame, dread, resentment, fear--all pressed so crushingly upon her, her soul was bowed even to the dust. The future lowered so darkly before her. Mittie--she could not help looking upon her as a kind of avenging spirit--that would forever haunt her. While she was in this state of ungovernable emotion, Mittie came in, with a face as white and rigid as marble, and stood directly in front of her. "Why have you fled from Clinton so?" she cried, in a strange, harsh tone. "Tell me, for I will know. Tell me, for I have a right to know." Helen tried to speak, but her breathless lips sought in vain to utter a sound. There was a bright, red spot in the centre of both cheeks, but the rest of her face was as colorless as Mittie's. "Speak," cried Mittie, stamping her foot, with an imperious gesture, "and tell me the truth, or you had better never have been born." "Ask me nothing," she said at length, recovering breath to answer, "for the truth will only make you wretched."