"But there are infinite disappointments and bitter experiences in store for a nature such as you describe," Madame suggested. "That beautiful trust must be rudely shattered." "Shocked, but not shattered;" corrected Mrs. Maxon. "And I think it better in this life to be often wounded through too great faith in our fellow-beings than to embitter our minds with an early distrust. "I have tried to impress her with the belief, that whatever pain is sent to her, comes as an ennobling and purifying lesson; not as a punishment. I want her to think of her Creator as a Benefactor; not as an Avenger. Her heart is free now, from all envious or jealous emotions, as a carefully tended flower-bed is free from weeds. But she has never been exposed to the constant friction of association with her own sex: and I tremble when I think what emotions evil influences may implant in that fresh soil. "I want you to teach her, as I have done, that envy is a vice, and jealousy and unkind criticism are immoralities, certain to destroy the noblest character. We warn our sons from the gaming-table and the wine-cup, with loud voices; but too many of us sit silent while our daughters contract habits of malicious speaking and envious criticism, which are quite as great evils in society to-day, as intemperance or gambling. "You will forgive my lengthy dissertation, my dear Madame, when you remember how precious the trust placed in your care. And now I must bid her a last farewell and take my departure. Poor child! she has never been separated from me a week in her life. The parting will be very hard for both of us." "Remember, my sweet child," was Mrs. Maxon's last injunctions to her weeping daughter, "that you are always to make me your first confidant in all things. Hear nothing, say nothing, do nothing, which you cannot tell your mother, who will ever strive to be your best adviser. And now, God's angels guard you, dear, and good-by." And Mrs. Maxon turned hastily from the clinging arms of her daughter, and hurried away, while Helena threw herself upon the couch in a wild passion of uncontrolled tears. CHAPTER II. TWO GIRLS AND A DOLL. When Dolores rapped softly at the door an hour later, she was bidden to enter by a low but calm voice; and she found Helena busy in unpacking her trunks, and arranging her wardrobe in closets, drawers and boxes. "You look tired, Miss Maxon," she said kindly--"or rather, Miss Lena, for we must not be formal if we are to be room-mates, must we? so let us begin with Lena and Dolores from the first." "Dolores," repeated Helena, softly; "Dolores--it is a lovely name, but I never heard it before." "No, it is not a common name. It means sorrowful, I believe; my mother named me well. And now, may I not assist you in your unpacking? Let me hang up your dresses--the hooks are so high, and I am taller than you."