As for Miss Helen, she went her quiet way, apparently looking neither to the right nor the left, only she had become still more reserved in her manner, and more sparing of her smiles. She also felt perfectly well that she would have to stand alone in the struggle which was impending; that she would appeal in vain to the heart of a cold, selfish mother, the weak mind of an old father, or the courtesy of a frivolous, reckless man like Felix, and that she would have to rely on no one but herself. But this consciousness, which would have overwhelmed any other girl of Helen's age, only served to rouse and to inflame the courage of this high-hearted creature, in whom the whole power of the family seemed to be concentrated, only in a nobler and purer form. The reconciliation which had taken place between her and her mother had only been apparent. Two persons are never more strongly opposed to each other than when they aim at different ends, and yet are equally well endowed with strength of will and powers of endurance. There was no permanent union possible between the baroness, who knew and pursued only worldly purposes, and her daughter, who followed an ideal which might have been exaggerated, but was always lofty and pure. Helen spoke freely of this in the letters, which she wrote more frequently now than formerly, to her dearest and most intimate friend, Miss Mary Burton. "Dearest Mary," she said in one of them, "how often have you accused your fate, which loaded you with riches but robbed you of all--parents, brothers and sisters, and even cousins--all those friends of both sexes, which nature herself gives us for our way through life! But, believe me, dear girl, there is a sadder fate than yours. The melancholy you feel when you think of your loneliness in the world has something sweet about it. How often have you spoken to me of your brother Harry, whom you lost in the fall vigor of early youth, and of your sister Hetty, who died a mere bud. You told me then that they were not and could never be dead for you, because they lived brighter and fairer in your memory. You said that the shades of the departed were everywhere hovering around you, and that you felt far happier in their society than among the cold, selfish men of this world. Oh, surely life is not the first of earthly gifts, but love is. To live without love is useless; love without life can still be sublime. Your relatives are dead, but they live in you; my relatives live, but they are dead for me. It is a sad word, darling Mary, but I will not blot it out again, for it is true; and we have pledged each other to conceal nothing, even though the confession be ever so painful. Yes, they are dead for me, my relatives, and although I would give half of my life to call them back to life, good wishes can do nothing here. Who lives for us? Surely only those in whose hearts we can always find an asylum, to protect us against every grief that oppresses us and against every