Helen’s face became instantly of a ghastly whiteness. She turned an affrighted glare upon Mrs. Truebody. Her lips moved as though she would speak but could not. A film spread itself over her eyes, a moment before unnaturally bright, and she swooned away. Mrs. Truebody let fall her hand, and hastened to apply restoratives. Her tears fell fast upon the pallid countenance over which she bent like a tender mother. “Poor child” she murmured. “Poor deluded child! Riches have not saved her from sin, nor spared her sorrow. Oh, woman! woman! you, who claim this frail creature as your child, what have you not to answer for!” Once again Helen became conscious, and now she was face to face with her true position--now she felt more terribly the upbraidings of self-reproach, for not having complied with Hugh’s passionate appeal to her. But the opportunity was passed. He was gone--perhaps to heaven. She was here alone--alone with her sin. Something to Mrs. Truebody’s surprise, she did not exhibit the violent emotions she had expected her to give way to, on being restored to a full sense of her position. She wept, it is true--her eyes rained tears, and her sobs--low, wailing sobs--were very painful to hear--but she was almost motionless; it was as though she cowered beneath the bed-clothes to hide herself for very shame. After a time she whispered-- “This is a dreadful secret--a most dreadful secret. I have had, since I have laid here, a terrifying sense of the truth, but I drove it away--I would not think of it, I would not believe it--but oh! is it true--is it true?” “It _is_ true,” repeated Mrs. Truebody, emphatically. Helen clasped her hands, and said to her, imploringly-- “Leave me to deal with this fearful discovery alone, but oh! Mrs. Truebody, if you have a spark of human charity, breathe not to mortal the calamity with which Heaven has afflicted me in meting out to me my deserts. Oh! think of my father’s and of my mother’s pride in the honour of our house. To know of my fall would crush them--that foul blot on their escutcheon would slay them. Oh! Mrs. Truebody, let me not add murder to my dread fault, I implore you, I pray of you--upon my knees with bitter, bitter tears I will pray of you, as you alone discovered my secret, so retain it in your own bosom.” “Be comforted in this, my poor child,” she replied: “I will not add a pang to the anguish which I am sure you must now so keenly suffer, but what I must know, and what I will know, is, the course you are going to adopt.” “You shall know as soon as I have the power to decide. At present my brain is racked with agony, my temples burn and throb: I cannot collect my thoughts into anything like coherency. Let me but have quiet--quiet, Mrs. Truebody, and I shall be able then to shape out the path my guilt and shame may compel me to take, without injuring or degrading those who are so jealous of their virtue and their fame.”