It must be allowed that Mrs. Desmond, with the best dispositions in the world towards children in general and her most perplexing little stepdaughter Helen in particular, was not very happy in her method of dealing with young people. Brought up herself by two maiden aunts on the old-fashioned repressive system, from which she had never consciously suffered, the children of to-day, with their eager, uncontrolled impulses, their passionate likes and dislikes, often fostered by their elders, and their too early developed individualities, were simply a painful enigma to her. That the fault lay in their training rather than in the young people themselves Mrs. Desmond was free to confess, and, during the long tranquil years of her maiden life, having never once been called upon to face the child-problem seriously, she had contented herself with gently regretting the lax discipline prevalent amongst the rising generation, and with wondering mildly, and not without a certain sense of quiet self-satisfaction, what would happen to the human race, when, in course of time, all the properly brought-up people were gathered to their fathers.

All this was changed, however, when this lady, spending a quiet summer at a Swiss hotel, met Colonel Desmond, who had just returned from India, and who was trying to restore his broken health at the same tranquil spot. Colonel Desmond was attracted by the lady's calm, sweet face, and before long he had told her his story, how he had lost his wife just thirteen years ago, and how she had left him with one little girl, Helen, for whose sake principally he had returned from India, and from whom he was now parted for the first time. He found his listener singularly sympathetic, and not at all disposed to be impatient over his long tale of doubts and difficulties, chiefly concerning Helen, round whom nearly all her father's thoughts centred at this period. The end of this pleasant friendship may be guessed. Colonel Desmond's liking for his new friend quickly changed to something deeper, to which she responded. After that they soon came to a mutual understanding, and it came about so quickly, and yet so naturally, that their fellow-guests at the hotel were more fluttered than those chiefly concerned when, one fine morning, this middle-aged couple were quietly married at the little English church, and then as quietly went away together. This happened a few months before our story opens. Upon the intervening time it is needless to dwell. Helen's feelings may be better imagined than described when, one day, without a word of warning, her father walked into the drawing-room of the pleasant, unruly household where she was temporarily located, and where she was, at that particular moment, engaged in teaching some untidy-looking children to sit monkey-wise upon the ground like her ayah, and, rather hastily unclasping the clinging arms which his little daughter had flung round his neck, he presented to her the gentle-looking lady who stood by his side as her new mother. A stormy scene had ensued, during which Helen certainly behaved abominably, stamping her feet and using some very strong language, luckily expressed in Hindustani, of which tongue Mrs. Desmond was blissfully ignorant. But she witnessed the passion, she recognized the undutiful conduct, and her heart sank within her at the prospect that opened before her. This was by no means the ideal little daughter over whom her gentle heart had yearned, and to whom she had meant to perform a true mother's part. As she looked and listened her feelings hardened, as the feelings of seemingly gentle people will harden sometimes, and she told herself that this was a child who could not be won, but who might be disciplined.

This was Mrs. Desmond's first mistake. Unfortunately Helen's bad behaviour at subsequent interviews only served to confirm her stepmother's earliest impressions. Beneath her surface amiability Mrs. Desmond possessed a considerable spirit of obstinate determination, and, if taken the wrong way, she was not an easy person to manage. She now determined, rightly or wrongly, that her stepdaughter's rebellious temper must be conquered, and conquered with the only weapons that she herself understood how to use. Accordingly when, a few weeks after her first introduction to her father's wife, Helen came to the dull house in Bloomsbury Square that Mrs. Desmond had inherited from her aunts, and where she and her husband had fixed their abode until their future plans were matured, the wayward girl found herself in a new and hitherto undreamt-of atmosphere. The surprise caused by her novel surroundings was so great that at first it almost took away her breath and left her passive. That she, Helen, who had never learned anything save in the most desultory fashion, upon whose caprices almost all her father's arrangements had depended, and who had recognized no authority save that of her own will, should be suddenly subjected to a routine that would have been galling even to carefully brought-up children, must have seemed to the poor child a cruel fate indeed. Every hour was mapped out for her, every action was to be performed at its appointed time. Mrs. Desmond had recalled, with singular accuracy, the memories of her own school-room days, and upon these Helen's were to be modelled henceforward. From seven to eight o'clock she was to practise. At eight she breakfasted upon the orthodox bread and milk or porridge—both forms of nourishment being detested by badly brought-up Helen—in company with Mrs. Desmond's own maid, who had grown gray in her mistress's service. Breakfast over, her lessons were conned lying on her back, and at nine o'clock her governess—a forbidding-looking female, not at all of the modern type, but possessed of exactly the requirements that had been considered essential in the days of Mrs. Desmond's youth—arrived, and did not leave her pupil for a moment until the evening, when, dressed in a prim white frock and sash, Helen was expected to take her place in her stepmother's drawing-room, where, at a due distance from the fire, and with a proviso that she was to speak when spoken to, she was allowed to amuse herself with a book until the gong sounded for her parents' dinner, when she was supposed to go to bed, with Mrs. Desmond's prim maid again in attendance to put out the light.

It must not be supposed that Helen, her first surprise over, submitted tamely to a life so utterly at variance with her former experiences and so uncongenial to her tastes. On the contrary, she rebelled fiercely, fairly frightening her composed stepmother with her outbursts of passion, and distressing her father, who could not bear to see his little daughter suffer, but who was daily falling more entirely under his wife's influence, and who began to believe, with her, that nothing but this sharp discipline could save Helen from the evil results of her previous bad training.

All his life Colonel Desmond had been completely under the influence of some one person or another. For the last few years he had been Helen's most obedient subject. It soon became evident that her place was being taken by his new wife. Perhaps this was not wonderful. Weak, easy-going, and somewhat broken in health, Colonel Desmond now found himself, for the first time, an object of tender solicitude. His tastes were consulted and his fancies gratified; above all, his wife—pleasant, low-toned, and agreeable to look upon—was constantly at hand to minister to his wants—a gracious, restful presence set in pleasant surroundings—for Mrs. Desmond possessed ample means, and money worries were, for the first time in the colonel's experience, conspicuous by their absence. It can scarcely be wondered at, then, that Colonel Desmond, looking at his wife with her serene untroubled face, and recognizing her perfect propriety of word and action, felt that he could not further Helen's interests more truly than by placing her unreservedly in her stepmother's hands, remembering, too, the wild Irish blood that she had inherited from her mother, for Helen's mother had been a wayward child up to her last hour, and had sorely tried the colonel, notwithstanding the very true love that he had borne her.

Poor Helen! She was the jarring note in this contented, middle-aged household. A grief to her father, who loved her; a terrible perplexity to her well-meaning though prejudiced stepmother. Not at all a terrible-looking little person, although Mrs. Desmond, amongst her most intimate friends, did occasionally lament her stepdaughter's unfortunate plainness. It was an interesting little face, with delicate though sharp features, and large, questioning, restless, blue-gray eyes; sad enough sometimes, but gleaming with fun and mischief on the least provocation. Helen's rough dark hair and her rather angular figure were Mrs. Desmond's despair; but the dark hair showed curious red glints when the sun shone upon it such as would have struck an artist's fancy, and the angular figure was lithe, and gave promise of graceful development when the childish angularity should be out-grown.

Just as it needed a trained eye to discern the possibilities of beauty possessed by Helen, so it required some loving knowledge of young natures to divine the latent good in her. Resentful, passionate, and wayward, she was also deeply affectionate, and her passionate outbreaks were followed by passionate repentance, a repentance that she expressed, however, only to her father, and, as the months went by, rarely even to him; for although his manner towards her was always kind and even loving, she knew, with the unerring instinct of childhood, that his affection was already to a certain extent alienated from her. She did not blame him for this. In her loyal little heart he still reigned supreme, as a being absolutely perfect and noble. It was on her stepmother's unconscious head that all the vials of Helen's wrath were poured. More or less cowed into outward submission, and half broken-spirited by her monotonous life, she hated Mrs. Desmond with a hatred that bade fair to poison her whole nature. To succeed in visibly annoying her stepmother, to bring an angry cloud over her calm face, was a positive pleasure to Helen. Mrs. Desmond had been accustomed to a well-ordered household, and any domestic disturbance was extremely annoying to her. Helen soon discovered this, and although she was supposed not to speak to any member of the household, with the exception of the maid, she delighted in surreptitious visits to the kitchen, and in setting the servants by the ears. Then, again, noises of any kind were Mrs. Desmond's abhorrence. Helen would purposely bang doors, tap with her feet on the floor, even scrape a knife on her plate at luncheon, and feel more than repaid for the sharp reproof which she drew upon herself by watching her stepmother's agonized expression whilst the torture was in progress. That these things were done purposely Mrs. Desmond did not guess, any more than she imagined that the passionate manifestations of affection for her father in which Helen occasionally indulged, were evidences of real love.

As a fact, there was something antagonistic between Mrs. Desmond's rather cold nature and Helen's ardent disposition. Only love and patience could have knit these two together. Mrs. Desmond's theory that a young girl should be treated as an irresponsible being, and forced into the same mould that had successfully moulded former generations if she was to turn out a "nice" woman, was fatal in this instance. The same want of comprehension of the meaning of real education overshadowed Helen's studies. Although, in the orthodox sense of the word, Helen's education had been sadly neglected, she was by no means ignorant. She had seen and observed much; had read, and read intelligently, books that most girls of her age would unhesitatingly pronounce "dry;" while for music she had a genuine talent. This last gift, however, did not help her much under the system of tuition adopted for her. Ordered, for instance, to practise her scales for an hour each day, without receiving any explanation as to the usefulness of such practice, the girl naturally regarded scale-playing as a fresh device for annoying her. Consequently her playing during her early morning practice soon became one of Mrs. Desmond's chief tortures, for each jarring note penetrated through the thin partitions of a London house, and, reaching that unhappy lady's ears, robbed her of her comfortable morning nap. Far too conscientious to put an end to the nuisance for consciously selfish motives, and too lacking in musical taste herself to discern Helen's real talent, she suffered as silently as she could; not so silently, however, but that Helen perceived the annoyance which she caused, and which she took care should continue unabated. But here, as in so many other instances, poor Helen's weapons were turned against herself. Being taken by her father to an afternoon concert, an impromptu pleasure indulged in during a blissful day when her stepmother was away, she was seized with a vehement desire to learn to play the violin. Her father, who fancied that his little girl had been looking pale lately, and who was pleased with the prospect of giving her so innocent a pleasure, consented, and quite after the manner of old times, the concert over, they went off together and purchased a violin, which Helen insisted on carrying home herself.

The afternoon had been so delightful, and had sped so quickly, that they had both forgotten the time, and that Mrs. Desmond was to return home at six o'clock. It was nearly seven when their cab brought them to their own door.

"Yes, Mrs. Desmond had returned an hour ago and was in the drawing-room," the servant said in answer to the colonel's rather nervous questioning. A cloud fell upon Helen as she entered the warm, well-lighted hall; but she clasped her violin tightly and followed her father upstairs.

Mrs. Desmond rose from a low chair as her husband entered the drawing-room. She was dressed in a pretty tea-gown, that well became her tall, slight figure. Soft lace was arranged on her head, and the shaded red light played on her diamond rings. She looked the very embodiment of delicately-nurtured, serene, English womanhood, and so the colonel thought as his eyes fell upon her. "What has kept you? I have been anxious about you," she said, addressing him in a gently-reproachful voice. "You must be cold and tired. Come and sit by the fire, and I will ring for tea."

"My dear," returned her husband, coming forward and kissing her, "how glad I am to see you back! The house seems like home again. As for tea, the truth is, Helen and I—well, we have been having a little fun on our own account. Come here, Helen, and tell your mother what we have been doing. We sent Miss Walker about her business, didn't we? And then—."

The colonel paused, and Mrs. Desmond then perceived Helen standing half-timidly, half-defiantly near the door.

"You there, Helen!" she said coldly. "How often am I to tell you that I will not have you come into the drawing-room with your walking clothes on! Go and take them off at once. When I was a child—."

"It is really my fault this time, wife," put in the colonel, who dreaded a scene with Helen, and who had, besides, begun to grow a little weary of his wife's reminiscences of her childhood.

"Nonsense!" returned Mrs. Desmond with quite unusual asperity. "Helen knows my rules. She is quite old enough to understand that her duty is to conform to them, and stay!"—as Helen was turning away abruptly—"don't go while I am speaking. Have you learned your lessons for to-morrow?"

"No."

"Then ask Martha to put a lamp in the school-room, and set to work at once. We shall not expect to see you this evening."

"I won't set to work at once—I won't, I won't, I won't," muttered Helen under her breath. Her passion was rising; but for her father's sake, her father who had been so good to her, and who she dimly understood was responsible for her lapse from duty that afternoon, she strove to control herself. Knowing that her only chance was in escape, she made a dash at the door; but in so doing the top of her violin came into contact with a small china-laden table, and a valuable Dresden figure fell to the ground with a crash.

Mrs. Desmond, fairly roused from her wonted calm, rushed forward, uttering a low cry. Her china was very dear to her. She suffered no one but herself to touch it, and it was her boast that each piece had in her keeping remained as intact as it had been in her grandmother's time.

"Oh, Helen!" she cried, "what have you done? My poor little shepherd is broken. You might as well have broken the shepherdess too. The pair is spoilt—utterly spoilt!"

"Perhaps it can be mended," suggested the kind-hearted colonel, coming forward. He was really touched by his wife's distress, and also not a little uneasy about Helen's share in the disaster.

"Mended!" repeated Mrs. Desmond with rising irritation. "Do you suppose that I would have a piece of mended china in my drawing-room? No, the mischief is irreparable—irreparable."

As she spoke she gathered up the broken fragments tenderly, while a tear fell upon her white hand.

"Not irreparable, surely, my dear," persisted the colonel with characteristic want of tact. "I have seen plenty of figures like these in old china shops. To-morrow, first thing, Helen shall make amends for her carelessness by—"

"Ah, Helen!" interrupted Mrs. Desmond, who had regarded the first part of the colonel's sentence as a confession of ignorance too gross for argument, but who was recalled by the mention of Helen's name to the enormity of the girl's offence. "Helen—"

There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Desmond was half-astonished at the bitterness of her own feelings, and felt the necessity of controlling herself. She looked up and saw Helen watching her from the open doorway with an expression of scarcely veiled triumph. It was the last straw. If the girl's face had expressed even fear or shrinking, Mrs. Desmond's better nature would have been touched; but there was something of insolence in her stepdaughter's defiant attitude that exasperated the usually self-controlled woman.

"Helen," she said, and her voice was hard, "you have been exceedingly clumsy: a clumsy woman is intolerable. I object to harsh measures, but something must be done to make you more careful in future. For the present, go to your own room and remain—. What is that you are carrying?" she cried with a sudden change of voice, catching sight of the violin which Helen held behind her.

The faintest expression of anxiety flitted over Helen's face, but she made no answer.

"Show it to me at once. How dare you bring parcels into the drawing-room?"

"I am going to take it away now," returned the girl insolently without moving, for an evil spirit seemed to possess her, and she was absolutely gloating over her stepmother's evident discomfiture.

"I insist upon seeing it," went on Mrs. Desmond; while the colonel, murmuring "Helen" in a tone of remonstrance, walked over to the fireplace.

"You can see it, and hear it too!" cried Helen desperately, her passion blazing out at her stepmother's authoritative tone; and as she spoke she placed the violin on her shoulder, and with the bow drew a long discordant wail from its strings.

Mrs. Desmond started forward, but recovering herself by a violent effort she stopped and put her hands to her ears. Helen dropped her right hand by her side, with the other still holding the violin in position, and regarded her stepmother with a flushed, triumphant face.

"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.

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.

"It is hard, I confess," murmured Mrs. Desmond after a pause. "If Helen were my own child could I care more for her welfare? I sacrifice my leisure, my inclinations—" her voice broke here, and once more the handkerchief was applied.

"My dear wife," began the colonel; but she motioned him to be silent.

"You little know what I have to endure from that child," she went on. "I do not wish you to know. She is your child, and I shall do my duty by her. But to be blamed by you is more than I can bear."

"I blame you, my dear Margaret! Come, you cannot mean that. Do you think that I don't feel grateful to you for your patience and for your goodness to me, to—to us every day. Why, you have only been away four-and-twenty hours, and the house felt like a wilderness. That was what drove me out, I think."

The colonel knelt down beside his wife and took her hand. She suffered herself to be consoled, and presently withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes and smiled.

"You are foolish to spoil Helen, dear John," she said. "With careful training I don't despair of making a good woman of her yet. But you must leave her to me, and her caprices must not be gratified."

"I thought her desire to learn the violin was innocent enough."

"Nonsense, John! you know nothing about children and their training. Girls were content with the piano in my young days; and I consider the modern girl's craze for violin playing extremely unfeminine. No; that violin must go back to-morrow. Helen's notions are far too fantastic already."

There was a suspicion of returning sharpness in Mrs. Desmond's tone, and her husband wisely forbore to press the subject further. On his way to dress for dinner he lingered for a few moments wistfully outside Helen's closed door. But neither then nor later, when (after Mrs. Desmond had retired on the plea of a headache, leaving the colonel free to follow his own devices), he returned, and knocking gently, called Helen, did any success reward his efforts to bring a crumb of consolation to the poor child. Judging by her silence that she must have fallen asleep, Colonel Desmond retired to his smoking-room and comforted himself by reflecting that Helen had certainly been naughty and probably deserved whatever punishment might be meted out to her. Then he recalled his wife's angelic goodness and smiled, thinking that such a woman could not possibly be very severe. Finally, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe before going to bed, he decided that only women could understand girls, and that Helen would thank him some day for having given her such a mother. But these comforting reflections did not prevent a wistful face, not unlike Helen's own, from peering out at him from amongst the dark shadows on the staircase, dimly lit by his solitary candle, a face that had looked up into his once and had whispered with failing voice, "Take care of the child and bring her safe to me." For our responsibilities are our own, and we cannot safely delegate them even to persons of angelic goodness.