Cousin Mary had some difficulty in dissuading this impulsive child from executing her project. Miss Macleod, however, shrewdly suspected that Mrs. Desmond would decline to receive her stepdaughter's apologies at that late hour, and that a fresh scene would be the only outcome of such an injudicious proceeding. Helen, rather crestfallen, at length allowed herself to be coaxed back into bed again, and then Cousin Mary crept down to the smoking-room and persuaded the colonel, who was sitting rather gloomily over his expiring fire, to come upstairs and say good-night to his repentant daughter. He did not require much persuasion, and the moonlight shone through the little attic window upon three very happy faces, as Cousin Mary looked on at the reconciliation of father and daughter. "A thousand thanks for looking after my little girl," whispered the colonel to Mary as they went down-stairs together. "She--she----" "She has the makings of a fine woman," interposed the latter warmly, "but you must not repress her too much. Send her away from home. It will be best, believe me." "Well, well, we must see," returned the colonel hesitatingly. "I must talk it over with Margaret. And, by the bye, let us say nothing of what has taken place to-night until Helen has made her peace. You understand. Good night, good night!" So saying, and walking very cautiously, the colonel crept down-stairs to his own quarters, while Cousin Mary, shrugging her shoulders a little impatiently, sought her own room. As for Helen, she was soon asleep and dreaming of dainty feasts in which she was participating. She had been dreadfully hungry, for she had indignantly refused to eat the only food that had been brought to her in her disgrace. In the sincerity of her penitence, however, she resolved to bear the pangs of hunger in dignified silence, and if her dream-feasts were not very satisfying they answered their purpose, for the hours flew by and she never stirred until the morning. CHAPTER III. HELEN'S ESCAPADE. Helen was standing in the hall listening to the retreating wheels of the cab that bore Cousin Mary away, and trying hard to keep back her tears. It was the late afternoon of an early spring day. Spring, as is its custom with us, had come suddenly; the air was soft and balmy, and the open hall door revealed a vista of delicate green that had fallen like a cloud upon the gaunt trees that filled the grimy London square. Even the servant lingered at the open door, closing it at last reluctantly as though loth to shut out the warm air and pleasant prospect.