“And I shall go also,” he said, bitterly, “but not with you.”  Even at that moment Helen Marsh exulted in her own mind to find his words and his steps at variance; he was still by her side.  The most perilous of all triumphs is the knowledge of possessing power over the affections of our fellow creatures; it is so especially intoxicating to women as to be greatly dangerous, and those who do not abuse such power deserve much praise.  Rose walked timidly behind them, wondering how Helen could have imagined any alliance in the world more brilliant—­but no, that was not the idea—­any alliance in the world so happy as that with Edward Lynne must be.  When they reached the commencement of the village, Edward said, for the fifth or sixth time, “Then you will go, Helen?”

“Certainly.”

“Very well, Helen.  Good evening.”

“Good evening, Edward,” was the cool reply.  Not one word of adieu did he bestow on Rose as he dashed into another path; while his dog stood for a moment, uncertain as to whether his master would return or not, and then rapidly followed.

“Oh, Helen! what have you done?” murmured Rose.  Helen replied by one of those low murmuring laughs which sound like the very melody of love; and the two girls, in a few moments more, were in their own cottage, where Rose saw that evening, for the first time, the gentleman whom Helen had declared she did not prefer to Edward, though she would rather marry him.

CHAPTER III.

I think I have said before that the most trying and dangerous position a young woman can occupy, is that where her station is not defined—­where she considers herself above the industrious classes by whom she is surrounded—­and where those with whom her tastes and habits assimilate, consider her greatly beneath them.  Superficial observers (and the great mass of human beings are nothing more) invariably look for happiness in the class one or two degrees above their own.  They would consider themselves absurd if they at once set their minds upon being dukes and princes; they only want to be a little bit higher, only the smallest bit, and never for a moment look to what they call “beneath them” for happiness.  This was particularly the case with these young girls.  Their station was not defined, yet how different their practice!  One was ambitious of the glittering tinsel of the world—­the other, refined but not ambitious, sought her happiness in the proper exercise of the affections; neither could have described her particular feelings, but an accurate observer could not fail to do so for them.  That night neither girl had courage to speak to the other on the occurrences of the past day, and yet each thought of nothing else.  They knelt down, side by side, as they had done from infancy, repeating the usual prayers as they had been accustomed to do.  Helen’s voice did not falter, but continued its unvaried tone to the end: