Why Mrs. Myles so decidedly preferred Helen to Rose, appeared a mystery to all who did not know the secret sympathy, the silent unsatisfied ambition, that lurked in the bosoms of both the old and the young.  Mrs. Myles had lived for a long time upon the reputation of her own beauty; and whenever she needed sympathy (a food which the weak-minded devour rapidly,) she lamented to one or two intimates, while indulging in the luxury of tea, that she was an ill-used person, simply because she had not been a baronet’s lady at the very least.  Helen’s ambition echoed that of her grandmother; it was not the longing of a village lass for a new bonnet or a brilliant dress—­it was an ambition of sufficient strength to have sprung up in a castle.  She resolved to be something beyond what she was; and there are very few who have strength to give birth to, and cherish up a resolve, who will not achieve a purpose, be it for good or bad, for weal or for wo.  Rose was altogether and perfectly simple and single-hearted:  conscious that she was an orphan, dependent upon her grandmother’s slender annuity for support, and that Helen’s father could not provide both for his daughter and his niece, her life was one of patient industry and unregretted privation.  Before she was fifteen, she had persuaded her grandmother to part with her serving maiden, and with very little assistance from Helen, she performed the labours of their cottage, aided twice a-week by an elderly woman, who often declared that such another girl as Rose Dillon was not to be found in the country.  Both were now verging on seventeen, and Helen received the addresses of a young farmer in the neighbourhood—­a youth of excellent yeoman family, and of superior education and manners.

The cousins walked out one evening together, and Rose turned into the lane where they used frequently to meet Edward Lynne.

“No, Rose,” said Helen, “not there; I am not in a humour to meet Edward to-night.”

“But you said you would,” said Rose.

“Well, do not look so solemn about it.  I daresay I did—­but lover’s promises—­if indeed we are lovers.  Do you know, Rose, I should be very much obliged to you to take Edward off my hands—­he is just the husband for you, so rustic and quiet.”

“Edward to be taken off your hands, Helen!—­Edward Lynne!—­the protector of our childhood—­the pride of the village—­the very companion of Mr. Stokes—­why, he dined with him last Sunday!  Edward Lynne!  You jest, cousin! and”—­ Rose Dillon paused suddenly, for she was going to add, “You ought not to jest with me.”  She checked herself in time; stooped down to gather some flowers to hide her agitation; felt her cheeks flush, her heart beat, her head swim, and then a chill creep through her frame.  Helen had unconsciously awoke the hope which Rose had never dared to confess unto herself.  The waking was ecstatic; but she knew the depth of Edward’s love for Helen.  She had been his confidant—­she believed it was a jest—­how could her cousin do otherwise than love Edward Lynne?  And with this belief, she recovered the self-possession which the necessity for subduing her feelings had taught her even at that early age.