The term was drawing to its close, and Martin would go home in a few days’ time. It was understood that Helen would go with him; and as the day of departure got near, she knew that her decision must be made, so far as it concerned herself, as to whether she should put off her marriage for some definite time, and do the daughter’s part to her father, living at home, obeying him, performing her parish duties as before, making _amende_, as far as she could, for the great act of disobedience which she was going to commit. Practically, she did not see the use of it; no good, as far as she could judge, would come of it; yet, in a way, Aunt Susan was right, the meaning of it, the sentiment of it, was sound. It would not be easy; it would be full of sustained effort, of sustained self-repression. Intercourse would be crammed with misunderstanding, the atmosphere would be full of frictional disturbances, but she saw there would be a certain moral gain to set against this. Also, and this, too, had a very sensible weight with her, there would be gain to her in the completeness of which her aunt had spoken. Ever since she had consciously woke to her own individuality her eagerness for her own improvement and enlargement had been of a very vivid sort. And perhaps the most excellent way of all had been here set before her to compass that, not by working for it, but by apparently limiting, maiming, discouraging it. That was a very simple, very elementary suggestion, yet it had never occurred to her in this connection. And it was, well, less crude than the other method. The evening before her departure she took the opportunity provided by Dr. Arne’s going to his chorus-metres after tea to talk to her aunt again. It had been a chilly day, touched with the autumnal sadness of early-falling leaves, and early-falling dusk, and the window-panes streamed. Though it was still August, a fire burned in the grate, and she sat down on the floor by her aunt’s chair. “Father has not written to me once since I came here,” she said. “He has written to you and to Martin I know, but there has never been a message to me. I don’t say this in any complaint, Aunt Susan; but what is one to do when that happens?” Lady Susan shut the book she was reading. She had been expecting Helen to mention this, but was unwilling to open the subject herself. “I know he has not, dear,” she said, “and I think it very wrong of him. I have told him so. But don’t let it hurt you, Helen. If other people, yes, misbehave, there is never anything to be done except to go on ‘behaving’ one’s self. And never let what other people do hurt you. For nothing can really hurt us except what we do ourselves.” “Ah, but in a way I have done it,” said the girl. “At least, it is in consequence of what I have done.”