When she opened her eyes great was her astonishment to see her father bending over her, while a policeman with a deeply-concerned face was looking on, and a cab was drawing up close beside them. "She'll be all right now, sir," said the policeman. "Let me lift her into the cab." "Speak, Helen," cried the colonel, "are you hurt? Oh! my child, if any harm had come to you!" "How did you come here, Father?" asked Helen, still frightened and a little defiant, struggling to her feet. "I followed you, of course. Did you think I would leave you to wander off alone? Come home." Helen shrank back. "Must I?" she said feebly. "We have been hard upon you, child, I daresay. I have been thinking, God knows----" Her father's tone, almost more than his words, touched the girl's generous heart. "It is I who am bad--wicked," she whispered, throwing her arms round his neck. "Forgive me, dear." This whispered conversation occupied but a few seconds. Before many minutes had passed Helen and her father, seated hand in hand, were driving homewards. The sound of wheels brought Mrs. Desmond to the head of the stairs. Her face bore signs of genuine emotion, but her expression hardened when she saw her husband cross the hall leading Helen, who hung back a little. "Oh! John," she cried, "I am thankful to see you back safely. Going out without a coat, too! No one knows the anxiety I have endured." Colonel Desmond made no reply, but he put his arm round Helen and half-forced her upstairs. "Wife," he said, "come here;" and they all three went into the drawing-room. "Margaret," he went on, and as he took her unresponsive hand and forced her to approach Helen, there was an appeal in his voice that must have touched a less self-absorbed woman, "Margaret, we have all something to forgive. I think we have been a little hard on the child. I have realized that through these fearful hours--hours that I shall never forget. God has given her back to us. Let us take her as from Him, and let this night be as if it had never been except for the lesson it has taught us." "I do not understand heroics," said Mrs. Desmond coldly, moving away a little. "Helen has behaved shamefully, but if you wish her fault to be condoned, I have no more to say." As she spoke she seated herself in her low chair, leaning her head wearily upon her hand. "Have you no kind word to say to her, Margaret?" pleaded the colonel, unwilling to let slip the opportunity of bringing these two together, and, manlike, making bad worse. "You are sorry, Helen? Tell your mother so." "Yes, I am sorry," said Helen. She spoke passively, like a child saying a lesson. She was not sullen as her stepmother, smiling ironically, fancied; but she was cold, tired, and hungry, and the painful emotions of the last few hours had temporarily exhausted her power of feeling acutely. But Colonel Desmond heard the words, and was satisfied; the little by-play was beyond him.