"I like you very, very much," she said, "although you do say such strange things. I wish--" Just then Cousin Mary's ball of wool fell from her lap and rolled away to some distance. Helen sprang to her feet and rushed to fetch it. At the same time Mrs. Desmond left her writing-table, and, shivering a little, rejoined her cousin by the fire. As she did so Helen brushed past her, holding the recovered ball in her hands. The action was not a courteous one, and Mrs. Desmond's displeasure was not mitigated by observing the girl's heightened colour and altered expression. "You are exceedingly awkward and clumsy," she said, smoothing her laces, which had been displaced by Helen's rough contact. "I wonder what my cousin will think of such a little barbarian. You had better say good-night and go to bed at once. Perhaps that will teach you to be more careful in future." Helen's face fell. Accustomed as she was to her stepmother's constant fault finding, to be reproved in this fashion and sent to bed like a baby before Cousin Mary stung her into fresh rebellion. "It is still only a quarter to eight," she said, glancing at the clock. "Why should I go to bed before my usual hour? I have done nothing wrong. I couldn't help knocking up against you just now." "Helen"--and for once the colonel's tone was really stern, for the insolence of his daughter's tone angered him. "Helen, how dare you speak in that way to your mother? Go to bed instantly, and don't let me see you again until you are ready to apologize." For a moment Helen stood transfixed. Never in all her life had her father spoken to her so before. Every vestige of colour left her face; her white lips just moved, but no words came. Then she turned round and walked quietly out of the room, forgetting even to slam the door behind her. "I suppose that we have to thank you for being spared a scene, Mary," said Mrs. Desmond as she sank into her chair with a deep sigh. "I'm afraid that Helen is too much for Margaret," observed the colonel, addressing his visitor, but looking anxiously at his wife. "Why don't you send her to a good school then?" asked the former briskly. "It's a lonely life for her here, poor child!" "Because, Mary," interposed Mrs. Desmond, "I do not approve of a school training for girls; and I shall never shirk a duty that I have undertaken for my dear husband's sake, however painful and wearing it may be." The colonel pressed his wife's hand, while Miss Macleod went on: "And yet in this case a school training might be the best. Probably the child is too much alone and needs young society." "Nonsense, Mary! Was not I brought up alone in this very house? Helen has many more indulgences than I ever had, and yet I was always happy and contented."