When, by some tenderness of manner, he would be induced to commence acknowledgments warmer than those warranted by friendship, she would parry his observations, turn them to ridicule, or give to them an interpretation they were never intended to bear: so that he would trust only to his expressive eyes to say what she refused to hear his tongue utter. He could tell by her drooping lid and rising blush that she comprehended that language, and that if she would defiantly encounter his gaze, she must read it and interpret it. “She loves me,” he would say to himself, “and she must be mine--under what contract circumstances must alone decide for me.” That decision was arrived at when he heard that Flora Wilton was well born and rich--his hand should be for her, his passion for Helen. It is easy to make calculations based on probabilities, but when contingencies are left out, the result mostly takes a very different form to that which it first promised to assume. Helen had carefully watched his countenance while her father spoke of Flora Wilton; she had not forgotten how his eyes seemed to gloat on her beauty when he beheld her in the garden, and she felt convinced by the expression which passed over his features when he learned that Miss Wilton was of good birth and rich, that he then formed designs respecting her. A flush of indignation and mortification passed through her frame. “I will bring him to my feet, and spurn him yet!” she said to herself. It was in this spirit they were all but toying with each other, when Malcolm, who had been reading the _Times_, uttered an exclamation, and, turning to his father, he said-- “You remember young Riversdale, sir?--you do, Helen, of course,” he cried, turning to his sister. Had fame--life--depended upon an unchanged countenance, she must have lost both. She on the instant grew deathly pale; she could not reply--she merely bent her head. “A son of Major Riversdale,” said Mrs. Grahame; “I think we met them in the north?” “Yes,” returned Malcolm. “Ah! I remember; his father died a beggar, and his uncle, an East India merchant, took charge of him--made him a clerk, or something of that kind,” observed Mr. Grahame--“a person one could not notice now. Why did you introduce his name to our notice?” “Here is a paragraph about him in the _Times_. It is rather a strange affair, I’ll read it out,” replied Malcolm. “Do so,” said his mother. Helen held her breath. She felt that some dreadful disclosure was about to be made, which would overwhelm her, too. Oh, that she might not faint! If only she did not faint, and could get to her room, to wrestle with the trial--for such it must be--alone! She sat with closed hands, teeth, her eyes only open, motionless as a statue. Malcolm turned his eyes upon the journal he held in his hand, and, in a loud, clear voice, read as follows:--