Then she told Mrs. Cutter voluntarily that if she had not been worried to death about Helen she supposed she might have been in her usual health. Mrs. Cutter raised her brows and said she hoped there was nothing the matter with Helen. Oh, no, the child was well and sillily happy, but this engagement! The two women stared at each other, ice and fire in these looks. Mrs. Cutter was astounded. Did her ears deceive her? They did not. Mrs. Adams was speaking in her large, welkin-ringing voice, distinctly audible in the street, across the street, for that matter. Helen was too young to marry, she was saying. She had not finished school. She had expected to give her the best advantages in music. Helen had talent, a future before her. But what good would talent do a married woman? She asked Mrs. Cutter this and paused for a reply if Mrs. Cutter could make one. Evidently she could not. No good in the world! Mrs. Adams retorted by way of answering herself. The less personal promise she had of a future, the better it was for a married woman. To have a gift in you that you could not develop made for unhappiness. And what time would Helen have for her music now? None. What use would she have for it? Practically none. And Helen had a very nice little talent for drawing. She had painted several placques, waving her hand at the evidences of her daughter’s art on the walls of the parlor. It was there--a placque the size of a dinner plate full of pansies, another one with roses painted on it. Mrs. Cutter’s eyes flew up obedient to these artless efforts in art, and immediately resumed their position on Mrs. Adams’ face, which was as full of meaning as the portrait of a Dutch mother done by an old master. “Of course you don’t know how I feel about it. You have never had a daughter,” she told Mrs. Cutter. “But I can tell you what it means. Your whole life is centered in her. You sacrifice and plan for her. You think she is yours. Well, you are mistaken. She belongs to some man she has never seen. About the time you are beginning to have some peace and satisfaction in her, he comes and gets her, marries her, regardless of you. Then you spend the rest of your life watching her do her duty by him, go through what you have gone through in your own married life, if not worse, when if you could only have had your way a little while it would have been so different, and--” Fortunately she did not finish this sentence. Helen came in at this moment and gave a sweeter, politer turn to the conversation.