"Mother," said Helen, softly, opening her eyes, "I do not sleep, but I rest, and it is so sweet--I feel as if I had been out in a terrible storm--so shattered and so bruised within. Oh! mother, you cannot think of the shameful accusations she has brought against me. It makes me shudder to think of them. I shall never, never be happy again. They will always be ringing in my ears--always blistering and burning me." "You should not think her words of such consequence," said Mrs. Gleason, soothingly; "nothing she can say can soil the purity of your nature, or alienate the affections of your friends. She is a most unhappy girl, doomed, I fear, to be the curse of this otherwise happy household." "I cannot live so," cried Helen, clasping her hands entreatingly, "I would rather die than live in such strife and shame. It makes me wicked and passionate. I cannot help feeling hatred rising in my bosom, and then I loathe myself in dust and ashes. Oh! let me go somewhere, where I may be at peace--anywhere in the world where I shall be in nobody's way. Ask father to send me back to school--I am young enough, and shall be years yet; or I should like to go into a nunnery, that must be such a peaceful place. No stormy passions--no dark, bosom strife." "No, my dear, we are not going to give up you, the joy and idol of our hearts. You shall not be the sacrifice; I will shield you henceforth from the violence of this lawless girl. Tell me all the events of this evening, Helen, without reserve. Let there be perfect confidence between us, or we are all lost." Then Helen, though with many a painful and burning blush, told of her interview with Clinton, and all of which Mittie had so frantically accused her. "When I rushed down stairs, I did not know what I was doing--my brain seemed on fire, and I thought my reason was gone. If I could find a place of shelter from her wrath, a spot where her eye could not blaze upon me! that was my only thought." "Oh! that this dangerous, and I fear, unprincipled young man had never entered our household!" cried Mrs. Gleason; "and yet I would not judge him too harshly. Mittie's admiration, from the first, was only too manifest, and he must have seen before you arrived, the extraordinary defects of her temper. That he should prefer you, after having seen and known you, seems so natural, I cannot help pitying, while I blame him. If it were possible to accelerate his departure--I must consult with Mr. Gleason, for something must be done to restore the lost peace of the family." "Let me go, dear mother, and all may yet be well." "If you would indeed like to visit the Parsonage, and remain till this dark storm subsides, it might perhaps be judicious." "Not the Parsonage--never, never again shall I be embosomed in its hallowed shades--I would not go there now, for ten thousand worlds."