"Perhaps after all, my dear, it might be well to accept your cousin's kind offer," he suggested when Cousin Mary, with most unusual persistency, made a final attempt to carry her point upon the last evening of her stay in town. Mrs. Desmond's thin lips tightened themselves a little, but she did not reply immediately. She rose from her chair and crossed the room to where her husband was sitting and laid her hand on his. "John," she said, "didn't I promise you to do my best for your child?" "Yes, my love, and I am sure--" "Have I kept my word so far?" "Of course, of course, my dear; but Helen is tiresome, no doubt. I only thought that perhaps a little change--" "That is enough, John. I only want to be sure that you trust me to be the best--to be the best judge of what is for your child's--" A little sob broke Mrs. Desmond's voice, and the last part of her speech was inaudible. But she had completely conquered. Colonel Desmond had no weapon for use against a woman's tears, and in spite of his promises to support Mary Macleod, given to her in a private interview, during which she had spoken pretty plainly, his silence gave consent to all that his wife had to say when she had recovered herself sufficiently to decline the obnoxious proposal in terms that left no further discussion of the matter possible. And now Cousin Mary was gone, and the colonel, lying on the drawing-room sofa prostrate with a bad headache, was conscious of some qualms of conscience on Helen's account, not unmixed with feelings of relief at the departure of this keen-eyed guest. "Your cousin is a very blunt woman," he said in rather a fretful tone to his wife, who was sitting beside him. "It is strange how well she got on with Helen. She seemed to like the child." "Oh! it was merely a caprice and a spirit of opposition. Mary was always unlike other people," returned Mrs. Desmond. "I don't know why you should say that," went on the colonel, still fretful. "People used to be very fond of Helen in India, and she has been very well-behaved lately, hasn't she?" Mrs. Desmond was nettled by her husband's tone and forgot her usual prudence. "I don't know what you call well-behaved," she said. "To me she seems to grow more trying every day. Mary has made her simply insufferable. I spare neither trouble nor expense, and yet--" "Really, Margaret," broke in the colonel, "do spare me any more complaints. If you want to be rid of the child, send her to your cousin. She begged hard enough to be allowed to have her. Why on earth you refused I can't think." "Cousin Mary asked me and you--refused." The white face coming out of gathering twilight shadows, and the tragic tones were Helen's.