and soft and ‘do-nothing’ it looks,—­and as to her portraits, they are in all those pretty painted books which Mr. Stokes calls ‘vanities.’  There is a queer, quirky, little old gentleman who visits here, who said that Helen owed her great success in society to her ‘tact.’  Oh!  Edward, she owes her sorrow to her ambition.  Would you believe it possible that she, the beauty of Abbeyweld, who for so long a time seemed to us satisfied with that distinction, is not satisfied now.  Why, there is not such an establishment, no, not at Mrs. Howard’s, as that which she commands.  Oh!  Edward, to have once loved Helen, is to be interested for her always; there is something great in her very faults; there is nothing poor or low about her.  That little cranky old gentleman said the other evening while looking at her, ’Miss Rose, a woman, to be happy, should either have no ambition, or an ambition beyond this world.’  Do ask Dr. Stokes if that is true.”

CHAPTER VI.

After she had been a little longer in town, Rose saw more clearly the workings of that ambition which had undermined her cousin’s happiness.  She saw where the canker ate and withered, but she did not know how it could be eradicated.  Something which women understand, prevented her laying open the secrets of the house to Edward; and yet she desired counsel.  Possessing much observation as to the workings of the human heart, she had but little knowledge as to how those feelings might be moulded for the best; and she naturally turned for advice, and with the faith of a Christian spirit, to the pastor who had instructed her youth.  He had loved them both, and she longed for his counsel, in the—­alas! vain—­hope that she, a right-minded but simple girl—­simple as regards the ambition of life’s drama—­might be able to turn her cousin from the unsatisfied, unsatisfying longings after place and station.  The difference in their opinions was simply this—­Rose thought that Helen possessed everything that Helen could desire, while Helen thought that Helen wanted all things.

It was morning—­not the morning that Rose had described to her lover, but not more than seven o’clock—­when Rose, who had been up late the previous night, was awoke by her cousin’s maid.  On entering Helen’s dressing-room she found her already dressed, but so pale and distressed in her appearance, that she could hardly recognise the brilliant lawgiver of the evening’s festivities in the pale, languid, feverish beauty that was seated at her desk.

“Dear Helen, you are weary; ill, perhaps,” exclaimed her gentle cousin.  “You have entered too soon into gay society, and you suffer for the public restraint in private.”

Her cousin looked steadily in her face, and then smiled one of those bitter disdainful smiles which it is always painful to see upon a woman’s lip.

“Sit down, Rose,” she said; “sit down, and copy this letter.  I have been writing all night, and yet cannot get a sufficient number finished in time, without your assistance.”