“You gwine find 'im changed er lot, honey,” the old woman said. “Do you know, I don't believe he ever got over Marse Albert's death. He warn't ter blame 'bout dat, honey, dough I do believe he feel dat way. Seem lak we never kin fetch up Marse Albert's name widout Marse Carson git sad. One night here late when Lewis was talkin' 'bout when yo' pa went off en fetched young master home, Marse Carson hung his head en say: 'Mam' Lindy, I wish dat time could be go over ergin. I would act so diffunt. I never seed whar all dem scrapes was leadin' to. But it learned me a lesson, Mam' Lindy.'” “That's it,” Helen said, bitterly, as if to herself; “he survived. He has profited by the calamity, but my poor, dear brother--” She went no further, for her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. “Don't think erbout dat, honey,” old Linda said, consolingly. “You got yo' one great trouble lak I has, but you is at home wid we all now, en you must not be sad.” “I don't intend to be, Mammy,” Helen said, wiping her eyes on her handkerchief. “We are going to try to do something to keep Pete out of trouble. Father thinks it is his associates that are to blame. We must try in future to keep him away from bad company.” “Dat what I want ter do, honey,” the old woman said, “en ef I des had somewhar ter send 'im so he could be away fum dis town I'd be powerful glad.” CHAPTER VII. [Illustration: 9070] Helen anticipated, the young ladies of the town, her most intimate friends and former school-mates, came in a body that afternoon to see her. The reception formally opened in the great parlor down-stairs, but it was not many minutes before they all found themselves in Helen's chamber fluttering about and chattering like doves in their spring plumage. “There's no use putting it off longer,” Ida Tarpley, Helen's cousin, laughed; “they are all bent on seeing your _things_, and they will simply spend the night here if you don't get them out.” “Oh, I think that would look so vain and silly in me,” Helen protested, her color rising. “I don't like to exhibit my wardrobe as if I were a dressmaker, or a society woman who is hard up and trying to dispose of them.” “The idea of your not doing it, dear,” Mary King, a little blonde, said, “when not one of us has seen a decent dress or hat since the summer visitors went away last fall.” “Leave it to me,” Ida Tarpley laughed. “You girls get off the bed. I want something to lay them on. If it were only evening I'd make her put on that gown she wore at the Governor's ball. You remember what the _Constitution's_ society reporter said about it. He said it was a poet's dream. If I ever get one it will be _in_ a dream. You must really wear it to your dance, Helen.” “_My_ dance?” Helen said, in surprise.