“I quite agree with you, mamma,” cried Helen, blushing as she spoke, for she was suddenly recalled to herself. “The more fortunate is the acquiescence, my dear,” said Lady Eleanor, dryly, “since it seems perfectly instinctive. I find, Helen, you have not been a very attentive listener, and as I conclude I must have been a very unamusing companion, I'll even say good-night; nay, my sweet child, it is late enough not to seek excuse for weariness--goodnight.” Helen blushed deeply; dissimulation was a very difficult task to her, and for a moment seemed more than her strength could bear. She had resolved to place the letter in her mother's hands, when the thought flashed across her, that if its contents might occasion any sudden or severe shock, she would never forgive herself. This mental struggle, brief as it was, brought the tears to her eyes,--an emotion Lady Eleanor attributed to a different cause, as she said,-- “You do not suppose, my dearest Helen, that I am angry because your thoughts took a pleasanter path than my owu.” “Oh, no,-no!” cried Helen, eagerly, “I know you are not. It is my own--” She stopped; another word would have revealed everything, and with an affectionate embrace she hurried from the room. “Poor child!” exclaimed her mother; “the courage that sustained us both so long is beginning to fail her now; and yet I feel as if our trials were but commencing.” While Lady Eleanor dwelt on these sad thoughts, Helen sat beside her bed weeping bitterly. “How shall I bear up,” thought she, “if deprived of that confiding trust a mother's love has ever supplied,--without one to counsel or direct me?” Half fearing to open the letter, lest all her resolves should be altered by its contents, she remained a long time balancing one difficulty against another. Wearied and undecided, she turned at last to the letter itself, as if for advice. It was a strange hand, and addressed to “Miss Daly.” With trembling fingers she unfolded the paper, and read the writer's name,--“Richard Forester.” [Illustration: 186] A flood of grateful tears burst forth as she read the words; a sense of relief from impending calamity stole over her mind, while she said, “Thank God! my father and Lionel--” She could say no more, for sobbing choked her utterance. The emotions, if violent, passed rapidly off; and as she wiped away her tears, a smile of hope lit up her features. At any other time she would have speculated long and carefully over the causes which made Forester correspond with Miss Daly, and by what right she herself should be intrusted with his letter. Now her thoughts were hurried along too rapidly for reflection. The vague dread of misfortune, so suddenly removed, suggested a sense of gratitude that thrilled through her heart like joy. In such a frame of mind she read the following lines:--