“You have a weight preying on your mind, which alone causes the physical prostration under which you suffer,” continued Mrs. Truebody. “It will continue to keep you here unless prompt arrangements are made to alleviate it by some decided step on your part.” Helen remained silent. Still, Mrs. Truebody went on-- “Have you a friend, Miss Grahame?” she asked; adding--“I do not mean a mere acquaintance, nor yet a relative, but a friend, in whom you can place the fullest confidence, and who would spare no exertion and faint not at trial and trouble to serve you. Speak, my child, for in truth it is a momentous question I ask of you.” Helen faintly shook her head, and, in a feeble voice, replied-- “No, I have not--not one--now.” The tears clustered in her eyes. Mrs. Truebody gazed upon her sadly. “You have need of one--sore need of one,” she said, gravely; “for you have some painful secret in your heart.” There was a silence as of the grave. Helen’s eyes looked into the dark shadow in her room, as though there she saw a phantom. She spoke not. “Have you never confided, by word or hint, to anyone that grief which now oppresses you?” asked Mrs. Truebody, in a curiously solemn tone. A flush spread itself over the hitherto pale features of Helen, and then it passed away, leaving her whiter than ever. “Never,” she murmured, in a low voice. “And where is he who has brought you to this condition?” asked Mrs. Truebody, in a tone betraying indignation. “Oh, do not speak, do not think harshly of him!” exclaimed Helen, with a quivering lip. “His anguish, his misery, and his despair, were greater than my own!” Then, in hoarse accents, she briefly spoke of the circumstances which called Hugh away, of his letter to her, of her mental struggles, her hesitation, and vacillation, until too late even to write to him, and then of the incident published in the newspaper. Mrs. Truebody listened in silence, with her eyes intently fixed upon Helen’s features, perusing them earnestly as though to ascertain whether there was not something more which Helen studiously concealed, but she did not seem to find what she sought. Presently, she said abruptly-- “Were you married?” A change instantly passed over the features of Helen--an expression impossible to describe: it told that a throng of unutterable thoughts were passing through her brain. “Why do you ask me such a question?” she said, in an almost inarticulate voice. Mrs. Truebody took a firmer hold of her hand. “Look in my eyes, my child,” she said solemnly; “answer me truly--are you ignorant of your actual condition?” “My--my condition!” feebly echoed Helen. “Know you not, my poor girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Truebody, in a deep and earnest tone, “that ere a few short months have passed over your head, you will become a mother?”