She knew that Robert Clarris had taken Helen from her situation of nursery governess, and had married her after a brief acquaintance. Rhoda's parents were Helen's only surviving relatives, and they had given their full consent to the match. It was not a bad match for a penniless girl to make; for Robert Clarris was a confidential clerk in the office of Mr. Elton, son of the widow in Cavendish Square. It was in July that Mrs. Elton's health began to fail. Rhoda Farren saw the change stealing over her day by day, and knew what it portended. In a certain way she had been fond of the old woman; but it was an attachment without love. There would be no great pain when the ties between them were broken, and Rhoda was conscious of this. She was even angry with herself for not being more sorry that Mrs. Elton was dying. "The worry of life is wearing me out, Rhoda," said the widow one day, when Miss Farren had found her violently agitated, and in tears. It surprised her not a little to hear that Mrs. Elton had any worries. But when the wind shakes the full tree, there is always a great rustling of the leaves. The bare bough does not quake; it has nothing to lose. Mrs. Elton had been a rich woman from her youth upward, and she could not bear that a single leaf should be torn from her green branches. "I have had a dreadful loss, Rhoda," she continued; "a loss in my business. The business is mine, you know. I always said my son should never have it while I was alive. But of course I have let him carry it on for me, and very badly he has managed! That confidential clerk of his--Clarris--has robbed me of three hundred pounds!" "You surely don't mean my cousin Helen's husband, Mrs. Elton?" cried Rhoda. "How should I know anything about his being your cousin's husband?" said the old lady peevishly. "His wife is a very unlucky woman, whoever she is. Three hundred pounds have been paid into Clarris's hands for me, and he has embezzled every shilling of it. My son always had a ridiculous habit of petting the people he employed. This is what has come of it." "Is he in prison?" faltered Rhoda. "No; I am sorry to say that he isn't. Those lazy idiots, the detectives, have let him slip. He has had the impertinence to write a canting letter to my son, telling him that every farthing shall be restored." The fugitive was not captured. Perhaps Mr. Elton had a secret liking for the _ci-devant_ clerk, and did not care to have him too hotly pursued. Poor lonely Helen had travelled without delay to her uncle's house, and there her little girl had entered this troublesome world. At the end of October Mrs. Elton had ceased to fret for the three hundred pounds, and had gone where gold and silver are of small account. And on this November afternoon Rhoda Farren had returned to her old home once more.