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.

It was just such a day as stirs the blood of even old people, while it sets young hearts beating, and conjures up before youthful eyes all sorts of pleasant visions. To Helen, accustomed for so many years to a cloudless eastern sky, the sunshine, although it brought her renewed life, brought also vague indefinable longings. London with its endless streets and squares, its never-ending succession of human beings, its saddening sights and sounds, seemed to stifle her. She longed, scarcely knowing what it was for which she longed, for the green country, for freedom, for space. To Cousin Mary it had been possible to speak of these and many other things. Cousin Mary gone—gone too holding out only the vaguest promises of another meeting, and with no word at all about claiming that visit from Helen of which a good deal had been said in the early stages of their friendship, the girl, suddenly thrown back upon herself, felt, with the exaggerated feelings of youth, as though she were deserted by everybody. It was impossible that she could guess how hard Cousin Mary had tried to secure that visit from Helen about which she had, rather incautiously perhaps, spoken to her young favourite. For as the days went on, and Miss Macleod's stay had lengthened out beyond her original intention, her interest in Helen had increased, and had deepened into real affection. Beneath Cousin Mary's influence all the best part of Helen's nature came out. And, indeed, her deep affectionateness, her generous impulses, her quick repentances for wrong-doing, her power of receiving good impressions, all combined to make Helen a very fascinating little person to one who took the trouble to understand her disposition. That there was another side to Helen's character Miss Macleod knew. Such intense natures ever have their reverse side. She had her bad impulses as well as her good ones; and a fierce temper that it would need many years of patient effort to bring under control. There was a spice of recklessness in Helen, too, and an impatience of restraint. Hers was a nature that might harden and develop terrible possibilities for evil under adverse circumstances. All this Cousin Mary saw with painful distinctness as she watched the girl with ever-increasing interest.

Accustomed as Mrs. Desmond declared she was to her cousin's vagaries, this last fancy of Miss Macleod's rather astonished that lady. That Helen should prefer a stranger to herself she regarded as merely another proof of her stepdaughter's perversity. But what Mary Macleod could see in the girl, and why she should want to carry off such an uninteresting child on a long visit, fairly puzzled Mrs. Desmond. It was not only perplexing, but extremely provoking, when it became evident that Miss Macleod would not accept a polite excuse, but kept returning to the charge, putting it into the colonel's head that Helen looked pale and needed change.

"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.

Poor Helen! Forgotten by everybody—her governess had left her earlier than usual in the day—she had been sitting alone in her little down-stairs school-room, thinking over all that she had learnt from Cousin Mary. She had been forming the most heroic resolves about her future conduct. Never, never would she purposely annoy her stepmother again. She would be patient, she would bear reproof meekly. And she would remember that great Father whose presence was such a reality to Cousin Mary, and who was training her not in anger but in love. As for her dear earthly father, Helen smiled as she thought of him, and recalled the days when he was always patient with her wayward fits. Then the gathering twilight made her feel lonely, and she remembered that he was ill upstairs. She would go to him, she thought, and, if by any happy chance she found him alone, she would tell him of her sorrow for the past and of her good resolves for the future. And if Mrs. Desmond was there? Well, there could be no harm in creeping in very gently and asking him how he felt, giving him a kiss, perhaps, and going away again.

"I must be very quiet, and oh! I hope I shan't knock up against anything," she said to herself as she went upstairs, speaking half-audibly for company, as it were, and to keep up her spirits, for the house seemed so still and quiet. The drawing-room door stood partly open, but a screen concealed the upper part of the room, where the colonel's sofa stood, from view. No one heard Helen enter, and although she caught a murmur of voices she was half-way across the room when her father's last remark arrested her attention.

I suppose it is a fact that it is in our most exalted moods we are most liable to fall. Her father's words stung Helen to the quick, and changed the whole current of her thoughts. In a twinkling all her good resolutions vanished. While she had been determining to submit, to be good, they, her father and stepmother, were discussing her, wishing to be rid of her, owning her a burden. And yet, just for the sake of tormenting her, of keeping her in bondage, they had refused her to Cousin Mary. Oh, it was cruel, cruel!

"How could you do it? how could you?" she cried, her voice breaking into a passionate sob. "Don't you know that I hate being here; yes, hate it quite as much as you hate having me. And Cousin Mary is good. I am not bad when I am with her. I—"

"Helen," broke in Mrs. Desmond, while the colonel moaned and put his hand to his head, "don't you see your father is ill? Go away instantly. If you have learnt from Miss Macleod to listen at doors I must write and beg her never to enter my house again. I did not know that you were deceitful in addition to your other faults. Go at once. Don't speak again."

"Father," began Helen; but he shook his head impatiently and motioned her away. For a moment she looked at them both defiantly, then, like one possessed, she scattered some books that lay upon a table near her in all directions.

"John, John!" cried Mrs. Desmond, "you must interfere."

But Helen only laughed.

"You've told me to go. I'm going," she said, and walked away.

Straight down-stairs she walked, singing as she went a snatch of an Indian native song. In the hall a comforter belonging to her father caught her eye. She picked it up and twisted it round her head and throat, then opening the hall door she passed out without a moment's hesitation into the fast-gathering darkness. The door closed heavily behind her. Upstairs the colonel heard it and sprang to his foot.

"My God!" he cried, "she has kept her word. She has gone. Quick! I must follow her."

"Nonsense, John!" exclaimed his wife; "lie still. A servant shall go at once. There is no need for alarm."

As she spoke she laid her hand on his arm, but he shook it off impatiently.

"Don't dare to detain me," he said sternly. "If any evil happens to that child I shall never forgive you."

"John, John!" cried Mrs. Desmond, throwing herself on the sofa and bursting into real tears. "John, listen to me—"

But it was of no avail. Whether the colonel even heard his wife's last appeal seems doubtful. Without pausing or turning his head, he walked straight down-stairs and out into the street just as Helen had done before him.

Darkness was falling fast. The air had turned chilly, with a bite of the east in it. Fresh from the warm drawing-room, Colonel Desmond shivered as he looked round in every direction, trying in vain to discover some trace of the fugitive. But to all appearance she had vanished, and the colonel, his alarm increasing every moment, as the passers-by whom he interrogated merely shook their heads in answer to his excited questions as to whether they had noticed a little girl without hat or bonnet going by, was forced to enlist a policeman to aid him in his search.

A weary search it was, lasting for many hours. Helen, after leaving the house, had walked steadily on, neither considering nor caring which way she took. Before long she reached a labyrinth of small streets, where there were few passers-by, and these chiefly clerks and artisans hastening home. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Helen paused every now and then to watch these home-goers run eagerly up the steps of some small dingy house, the door of which would open as if by magic at its master's approach, whilst from within came gleams of light and glimpses of small outstretched hands drawing father in. Such sights brought her a realization of her own desolation, and she hurried on until at last physical exhaustion brought her once more to a stand-still. Oh! how tired and hungry she was! Even a piece of bread would have been welcome. But, alas! her pocket was empty. She had not the wherewithal even to buy bread. Then she sat down on a door-step and began to ponder on her future proceedings. What was she to do? Go back? No; she would never do that. Find Cousin Mary? But how was the necessary journey to be accomplished without money? Certainly it might be possible to walk the distance in two weeks—one week, perhaps. But—here Helen began to shiver, and she was just trying to wrap her comforter more closely round her when a light was flashed in her face and she felt her arm grasped. Looking up, her heart nearly stood still with terror when she saw a policeman standing beside her.

He looked at her for a minute, whilst she tried to speak, but couldn't. She felt as if a nightmare was coming true.

"Get up and move on!" he said roughly. "Where do you come from? You ought to have been at home long ago."

Helen needed no second bidding. Although the policeman kept his hand upon her arm, and seemed to have some intention of questioning her further, she released herself quickly and set off running as fast as she could go. On and on she went, up one street and down another, until once more exhaustion forced her to stop. It was growing late, and she espied a dark porch where it struck her that she might pass the night free from discovery. "In the morning I shall be able to think," she said, crouching down on the cold stones. Terribly afraid as she was, and cold and hungry, the idea of returning home never entered Helen's head. She had said to herself that she would never go back, and she fully meant to keep her word. A sort of drowsiness was stealing over her when approaching footsteps startled her into wakefulness and roused her to fresh terror. She jumped up and ran down the steps. Two figures were approaching; one looked like that of the dreaded policeman. Could he be coming to take her to prison? Once more she turned to fly, but her foot caught against the curb-stone, and she fell heavily, striking her head against the ground. The shock stunned her and rendered her unconscious.

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.

"You hear her, Margaret? Forgive her freely. Think if we had lost her. Think——"

But the idea of his little girl wandering homeless and unprotected in our great London through the long night hours, was too much for the colonel. Ill and over-wrought, he turned white, staggered, and, throwing himself into the nearest chair, sobbed like a child.

Mrs. Desmond's maid sympathized too deeply with her injured mistress to find it possible to wait on Helen that night. But Helen's cause having been adjudicated a rightful one by the kitchen tribunal, where rough justice is meted out with impartiality as a rule, the poor wornout child had no lack of practical sympathy and help. She was soon in bed and asleep, and although she woke up with a curious stiff feeling all over her, she was by no means seriously the worse for her rash adventure.

She awoke in a very humble frame of mind, thoroughly ashamed of her flight, and half afraid to venture upon any more good resolutions. She knew with unerring instinct that her stepmother had not forgiven her, never would forgive her, and her heart sank as she thought of the sharp reproofs, the never-ending tasks that would most certainly be her portion for some time to come, until, perhaps, the memory of this fault was lost through the commission of another of still greater enormity.

"But I can never do anything so dreadful again, never!" said Helen to herself as she rose and dressed; "and I must be patient. Perhaps if I am she will even get to like me a little"—Mrs. Desmond was always inelegantly she in Helen's thoughts. "I don't know that I should care for that, though. But for father's sake, dear father! I had no idea he cared so much. I must never hurt him again."

After this she went down-stairs to practise her scales as usual, only very quietly and carefully, with no unnecessary faults. Things soon fell into their old channel, and, as she had anticipated, Helen had a good many small persecutions to endure, although Mrs. Desmond carefully avoided any open conflict with her stepdaughter. And in one way things were never so bad with Helen again after that memorable evening, for she never again doubted her father's love, and, as Cousin Mary had said, love makes so many things easy.