"No, he would not!" exclaimed Helen, in great excitement. "He would not give it up if he could keep it against our wish." "Now, Sis, I will not go on talking in this blind way. Here is our rustic seat, and we are as retired as if we were in the midst of a great forest. Sit down, and tell me everything that has occurred since I left you." "Well, I will." She threw herself on the seat and for one moment covered her face with her hands, shuddering visibly. "Are you trying to torture me, Helen?" inquired Frank, seizing her hand and pulling it from her face; "if so, you have succeeded well." "Oh, Frank! I hate Mr. Tracy and Roswell. I despise Mrs. Tracy for being the wife of her husband. And I despise Helen Edmond more than all. I'm growing worse and worse every day; I'm freezing up, as you call it. I'm growing hard and defiant, and unforgiving. I'm forgetting all dear papa's instructions. I'm getting to hate prayer, or grace at table. Oh, I'm horrid! And the worst of it is, I'm afraid I shall never be any better." "Helen, Mr. Tracy is a Christian. You ought not to talk so." "If he is, I'll try hard never to become one. But I know he is not. I might have believed it, if I had never known our precious papa. I might have imagined that religion was talking about churches and ministers, going to church one half of every pleasant Sunday, reading prayers in a loud, monotonous voice, and in the meantime doing every mean, selfish, ungrateful thing, under the cloak of piety. "Thank God, I have seen one good Christian. I have seen him live, and I have seen him die." Her voice faltered and for a moment she lost self-control. But with an effort, she quickly resumed: "I have seen a man whose heart was kept pure, and therefore sweet, healthy streams flowed from the living fountain. A man who thought little of himself except so to live as to do honor to his Saviour, but who thought much of others in his efforts to make them happier and better,—a man whose name, perhaps, was never seen in public print, but which was engraven on the hearts of all who knew him,—a man who confessed himself a sinner, though in the sight of others he was a saint,—a man whom Jesus loved and comforted in his dying hours. Yes, I'm sure there are Christians." Frank sat and gazed at his sister in wonder. Her eyes by turns melting and defiant, her head erect, her cheeks crimson with excitement, her tongue loosened and the words flowing with the greatest rapidity from her lips. For one instant, the thought crossed his mind that a fever was burning in her veins and affecting her reason, but one recollection of her talk before starting with old nurse, just like her old self, put such fears to flight. He clasped her hand tenderly exclaiming, "Sis, I can't make it out. I don't know you. I believe you're not Helen after all."