"My own troubles! You don't understand, or you wouldn't say that. Why should I do as she tells me? She isn't my mother. My father and I were happy before she came, and now even father doesn't love me. I met him on the stairs to-day and he asked me if I was sorry, and just because I said I wasn't he went on and never spoke another word to me. He didn't use to want me to be sorry, he wanted me to be happy." "And yet you weren't always happy then, Helen." "Oh, yes! I was; at least nearly always." "Had you no troubles? Did nothing ever go wrong? Were there no tears?" "Well, of course, sometimes things went wrong. But it was quite, quite different then." "You believe that your father loved you then, don't you, Helen?" "I know he did." "And yet, loving you as he did, he saw that you must have some better training than he was able to give you; and he wished to make a happy home for you. He did his best for you, and you make things very hard for him. I think he might truly say that his little daughter does not love him." "But I do, even now. I would do anything in the world for him." "You show your affection very curiously, Helen." Helen was silent, and Cousin Mary went on. "When one loves a person truly one ceases to think of one's own happiness so much." "But I can't do anything to make him happy now." "You could do a very great deal." "How?" "By helping to make his home happy, by being respectful and obedient to your stepmother, and by trying to become what she wishes to see you." "I never could please her if I tried ever so hard." "But have you ever tried?" Helen was again silent. "I know it wouldn't be quite easy at first, dear. But if you were to say to yourself when you feel your temper rising, 'It is for my father's sake,' it would be possible, I think. Love makes so many things easy." Helen lay very still. There was silence for a few minutes, and then Cousin Mary spoke again. "You were rude yesterday evening, my child; your father was quite right to reprove you. You caused him a great deal of pain. Won't you make amends to him by telling him and your stepmother that you are sorry?" Still no reply from Helen, and Cousin Mary was heaving a sigh of disappointment, when suddenly the bed-clothes were flung violently on one side, and Helen sprang to her feet. "I will go at once," she exclaimed. "She--I mean mamma--can't be in bed yet. I shall be able to go to sleep when I have seen her and kissed my father. And I suppose, Cousin Mary, that I ought to tell her that I ran away from Miss Walker to-day. Well, never mind, I will tell it all, and then I shall start fresh to-morrow. Wherever _can_ my dressing-gown be?"