The general looked at her with astonishment. “Your refusal is not irrevocable.” “You do not know me, Miss Stanley.” “I think I do.” “Better than I know myself.” “Yes, better, if you do yourself the injustice to think that you would not yield, if it were right to do so. At this very instant,” pursued Helen, disregarding his increasing astonishment, “you would yield if you could reasonably, honourably--would not you? If you could without injury to your ward’s fortune or character, would you not? Surely it is for his good only that you are so resolute?” “Certainly!” He waited with eyes fixed, bending forward, but with intensity of purpose in his calmness of attention. “There was something which I heard Mr. Beauclerc say, which, I think, escaped your attention,” said Helen. “When you spoke of the new house he intended to build for himself, which was to cost so much, he offered to give that up.” “I never heard that offer.” “I heard him,” said Helen, “I assure you: it was when you were both walking up and down the room.” “This may be so, I was angry _then_,” said the general. “But you are not angry now,” said Helen. He smiled, and in truth he desired nothing more than an honourable loophole--a safe way of coming off without injury to his ward--without hurting his own pride, or derogating from the dignity of guardian. Helen saw this, and, thanking him for his condescension, his kindness, in listening to her, she hastened as quickly as possible, lest the relenting moment might not be seized; and running out on the terrace, she saw Beauclerc, his head down upon his arms, leaning upon an old broken stone lion, and Lady Cecilia standing beside him, commiserating; and as she approached, she heard her persuading him to go to the general, and speak to him again, and say _so_--only say so. Whatever it was, Helen did not stay to inquire, but told Cecilia, in as few words as she could, all that she had to say; and ended with “Was I right?” “Quite right, was not she, Granville?” Beauclerc looked up--a gleam of hope and joy came across his face, and, with one grateful look to Helen, he darted forward. They followed, but could not keep pace with him; and when they reached the gallery, they found him appealing, as to a father, for pardon. “Can you forgive, and will you?” “Forgive my not hearing you, not listening to you, as your father would? My dear Beauclerc, you were too hot, and I was too cold; and there is an end of it.” This reconciliation was as quick, as warm, as the quarrel had been. And then explanations were made, as satisfactorily as they are when the parties are of good understanding, and depend on each other’s truth, past, present, and future.