"If you would promise not to dance, Helen," she began, hesitatingly. Her father looked up in undisguised astonishment. "Why, Rhoda," he said, "I didn't think anything in the world would have made you go!" "O Rhoda, how good of you to give way!" cried Helen, brightening. "Of course I'll promise. It's just like her, Uncle: she was always the most unselfish girl on earth! She doesn't despise me because I'm weak-minded, and like a little bit of pleasure. Ah, how kind she is!" The farmer said no more. He had a great reverence for his daughter, and would not take the matter out of her hands. But he went indoors with a grave face; and Helen followed him in a flutter of delight. As Rhoda lingered that evening in the dewy twilight, she began to charge herself with cowardice. It would have been hard to have held out against Helen's desires. And yet--for Helen's own sake--ought she not to have been firm? Most of us suffer if we stifle our instincts; and hers had told her that this feast was no place for her cousin. "It shall be the last time that I am weak," she thought, hoping to atone for the present by the future. "I will let her have her way this once, and then I will set myself to guide her in a better path." The grey, transparent veil of dusk stole down, and the clear stars shone through it. A little wind came creeping up the garden like a human sigh. One or two white moths flitted past, and a bird uttered a sleepy, smothered note. For a minute she loitered in the porch, listening to the pleasant, household stir within. Helen's laugh mingled with John's cheery tones and the clatter of supper-plates. "Where is Rhoda?" she heard her mother say. The jessamine, which grew all over the porch, swung its slender sprays into her face. The sweet, chill blossoms kissed her lips as she passed beneath them; but she went indoors with an unquiet mind. CHAPTER V. HELEN UNDER A NEW ASPECT. On Friday afternoon, Helen's chamber-door chanced to be left open, and Rhoda caught a glimpse of a delicate silk dress lying on the bed. She went straight into the room and examined it. Bodice and sleeves were trimmed profusely with costly lace; the rich lilac folds might have stood alone, so thick was the texture. It was not the sort of dress that should have belonged to the wife of a merchant's clerk. Rhoda was perplexed. "Isn't it handsome!" asked Helen's voice behind her. "I hope you are not thinking of wearing it this evening," said Rhoda. "It's a most unsuitable dress for a country merry-making. Do put on something plainer, Helen." "O Rhoda," she pleaded, "I am not like you; I can't abide browns and greys! I want to be dressed as the flowers are! You loved the lilacs when they were in bloom; why may I not copy them?" "Their dress costs nothing," said Rhoda, "and the silk is a poor imitation of them. Even Solomon in all his glory wasn't arrayed like the lilies of the field. This gown must have been very expensive, Helen."