The girl sat with the same look of helpless fright upon her face, and with her hands clenched tightly between her knees; the other went on talking hurriedly, but Helen scarcely heard anything after that; her mind was too full of its own thoughts. It was several minutes more before she even noticed that the woman was still insisting that she must go to see Artheur. “Please leave me now!” she cried wildly; “please leave me! I cannot explain anything,--I want to be alone!” And when the door was shut she became once more dumb and motionless, staring blankly ahead of her, a helpless victim of her own wretched thoughts. “That is the end of it,” she groaned to herself; “oh, that is the end of it!” Winkt dir nicht hold die hehre Burg? CHAPTER VIII Thou would'st be happy, Endlessly happy, Or endlessly wretched. Helen was quite powerless to do anything whatever after that last piece of misfortune; it seemed as if she could have remained just where she was for hours, shuddering at the sight of what was happening, yet utterly helpless before it. The world was taking a very serious aspect indeed to the bright and laughing girl, who had thought of it as the home of birds and flowers; yet she knew not what to make of the change, or how she was to blame for it, and she could only sit still and tremble. She was in the same position and the same state of mind when her aunt entered the room some minutes later. Mrs. Roberts stood watching her silently, and then as Helen turned her gaze of pleading misery upon her, she came forward and sat down in a chair by the bedside, and fixed her keen eyes upon the girl. “Oh, Aunt Polly!” cried Helen; “what am I to do? I am so wretched!” “I have just been talking to Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Roberts, with some sternness, “and she's been telling you about Arthur--is that what is the matter with you, Helen?” “Yes,” was the trembling response, “what can I do?” “Tell me, Helen, in the first place,” demanded the other. “When you saw Arthur that day in the woods, what did you do? Did you make him any promises?” “No, Auntie.” “Did you hold out any hopes to him? Did you say anything to him at all about love?” “I--I told him it was impossible,” said Helen, eagerly, clutching at that little crumb of comfort. “Then in Heaven's name, child,” cried the other in amazement, “what is the matter with you? If Arthur chooses to carry on in this fashion, why in the world should you punish yourself in this horrible way? What is the matter with you, Helen? Are you responsible to him for your marriage? I don't know which is the most absurd, the boy's behavior, or your worrying about it.” “But, Auntie,” stammered the girl, “he is so ill--he might die!”