For the principals the task was, as Sebastian had told Adrienne, no joke. It was continuous, dry drudgery. The routine was monotonous, and the discipline strict; but the master and head of it all was the first to adhere unswervingly to every rule laid down, and his coadjutors followed with unhesitating obedience. Mr. Blisset received more kisses and thanks from his niece just now than she had ever bestowed before--kisses and thanks for what she called his goodness in sparing her to help the poor people in their great distress. She was with him much less than usual, and perhaps did not therefore notice so much his pallor and weakness, and the strength which was failing in every way. He, for some reason, withheld the truth from her, and did not tell her that he felt almost at the end of his weary, dismal pilgrimage. It was only to Sebastian that he spoke about that--Sebastian, who had become the trusted friend of the poor, lonely man. Adrienne and Helena worked heartily, hand in hand. That was no time for petty bickerings and jealousies. Even sectarians forgot their differences in the imperative necessity for administering to the great need and woe of the people. In working-hours Adrienne forgot entirely who Helena was; and knew her only as a hearty helper, a quick, bright, kind-hearted girl, to whom no trouble was too great, and no task too hard. It was not quite the same with Helena. She had divined, by some subtle means--herself scarce knew how--that Adrienne was no other than ‘the nicest girl I ever knew,’ and Miss Spenceley’s eyes grew intensely critical. Every word, every gesture and action of her coadjutor, was weighed in a nice balance, and, so far, had not been found wanting. Helena herself was, without knowing it, changing rapidly. Despite a certain vague disquietude of heart, she was happier than she had ever been in her life before. She threw herself into her new work with her characteristic passionate energy and vehemence, and her contact with life, and some of its sternest lessons, was rubbing down her preconceived extravagances of opinion, though she still, in word and theory, cherished them as fondly as ever. But it was impossible that one of her intensely sensitive and receptive mind could behold what she daily did, of sorrow and pain, of ignorance and helplessness, and remain the same. She saw into depths in this our life of which she had never dreamed, and which Laura Mereweather’s philosophy passed over entirely.