“To me, mother? that would not do William any harm,” said Hope, looking up brightly; “though if my father would not _speak_ to him--but he would, mother--he could not help it.” “My dear, I have known your father longer than you have,” said Mrs Oswald; “and besides, Hope, Helen Buchanan would not consent if your father did not consent; she is as firm as he is.” “Then it is all because everybody is proud, mother,” said Hope, turning away disconsolately, “and would rather make other folk unhappy than give up their own will.” “There are some things in the world, Hope,” said Mrs Oswald, “that are of more importance than even making people happy.” “I know, mother,” said Hope: “it is best to be _right_ always, whether we are happy or not; but this is not right, I am sure--my father does not know--there is nobody in Fendie like Helen Buchanan!” Mrs Oswald sighed. “You must not speak so of your father, Hope, he knows what is right better than you do.” Hope looked sceptical; those frank instinctive impulses of the young heart, which had no complicated mesh of secret motives to hinder its prompt out-going, were perhaps better guides after all than the groping, worldly wisdom of elder minds; wisdom whose wary steps are supposed to be guided by the caution of clear-sightedness, when it is only the timid caution of the blind. “But I may go to see Helen Buchanan, may I not, mother?” asked Hope, after a pause. “Surely, Hope; I have no wish to restrain you, and your father will not, I dare say, unless you speak of her again before him, as you did yesterday; and you must be cautious of that, for it only aggravates your father’s prejudice and vexes William, without doing any good.” “And am I not to speak about Helen at all?” said Hope. “No, my dear, not now. I do not forbid you praising Helen as frankly as you blame Adelaide Fendie--and you must restrain that last propensity of yours a little, Hope--but do it cautiously and warily, and let me see something of this wisdom and good sense which Miss Swinton has discovered. You see I trust you, Hope.” Hope drew herself up. “I will be very careful, mother, no fear, but may I go to see Helen now?” “Helen will be busy now, Hope.” “Well, then, come to the Waterside, mother; I want to see Mossgray, and I want to see Maggie Irving. Come!” The indulgent mother laid aside her work and went. Friarsford was a farm-house standing on a little eminence at some distance from the Water, and Maggie Irving was the farmer’s daughter. She was a year older than Hope Oswald, and one of her Fendie intimates. The house was only a little out of the direct road to Mossgray, and Mrs Oswald and her daughter turned up the winding by-way to make their first visit there.