"It is hard, I confess," murmured Mrs. Desmond after a pause. "If Helen were my own child could I care more for her welfare? I sacrifice my leisure, my inclinations--" her voice broke here, and once more the handkerchief was applied. "My dear wife," began the colonel; but she motioned him to be silent. "You little know what I have to endure from that child," she went on. "I do not wish you to know. She is your child, and I shall do my duty by her. But to be blamed by you is more than I can bear." "I blame you, my dear Margaret! Come, you cannot mean that. Do you think that I don't feel grateful to you for your patience and for your goodness to me, to--to us every day. Why, you have only been away four-and-twenty hours, and the house felt like a wilderness. That was what drove me out, I think." The colonel knelt down beside his wife and took her hand. She suffered herself to be consoled, and presently withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes and smiled. "You are foolish to spoil Helen, dear John," she said. "With careful training I don't despair of making a good woman of her yet. But you must leave her to me, and her caprices must not be gratified." "I thought her desire to learn the violin was innocent enough." "Nonsense, John! you know nothing about children and their training. Girls were content with the piano in my young days; and I consider the modern girl's craze for violin playing extremely unfeminine. No; that violin must go back to-morrow. Helen's notions are far too fantastic already."