"Go to your room," said the latter at last in accents of such bitterness that even her husband felt uncomfortable. "Go to your room and to bed. To-morrow I will see you. I do not wish to inflict any punishment upon you in anger." "Punishment indeed!" cried Helen, whose blood was up. "I have done nothing to deserve punishment. My father gave me this violin. You cannot take it from me. It is mine." "It shall be taken from you. John," turning to her husband, "I appeal to you. After Helen's disgraceful behaviour you cannot wish her to keep the present which in your mistaken kindness you appear to have given her." The colonel sighed, but came forward nervously. "Helen," he said, "pray do not oppose your mother. You know that she only desires your good. And really--" He stopped short, for Helen was regarding him with a curious expression, and her breath was coming thick and fast. "Do _you_ want me to give her my violin?" she asked. "Only for a little time, Helen, to show that you are sorry, and that you will be more obedient in future." For a full minute Helen stood clutching her violin and regarding her father with that same curious expression; then she let the instrument drop slowly from her shoulder, and seizing it with her right hand, flung it from her with a furious gesture. It fell at Mrs. Desmond's feet. [Illustration: HELEN FLINGS THE VIOLIN AT MRS. DESMOND'S FEET] "Take it," cried the excited girl, "take it. You have robbed me of my father, now you rob me of that. I hate you." Not waiting for a reply, she rushed wildly from the room, and a moment later the sound of a banging door, adding a last torture to Mrs. Desmond's sorely-tried nerves, informed all whom it might concern that Helen was safe in her own chamber. Colonel Desmond sighed deeply and turned away. His wife, always careful and orderly, stooped and picked up the violin. "I hope it has not suffered," she said, placing it on a table. "It must go back to-morrow." "Don't be hard on the child, Margaret," said the colonel, not noticing the foregoing remark. "Am I ever hard on her, John?" As Mrs. Desmond spoke she crossed the room and reseated herself in her easy-chair, leaning back wearily and wiping her eyes with her delicate lace handkerchief. "No, my dear, of course not," returned the colonel. "But--" "But what?" "She needs patience. It is perhaps hard on her--" "Hard on her! It is hard on me, I think." "Yes, yes, my dear, I know that. I only mean--" Colonel Desmond scarcely knew what he meant. His heart was bleeding for the wounds inflicted by that little termagant upstairs upon this gentle woman who continued to sit with her handkerchief to her eyes. He was longing to reconcile them, and yet he was dimly conscious that in his blundering man fashion he was but setting them farther apart.