Helen’s face grew red and pale by turns.  “You mock at and mar my purposes,” she said.  “My husband was struck by the beauty of that child, and I longed to see her; but I am doomed to disappointment.  I never tried to grasp a substance that it did not fade into a shadow!  What am I now?” Her eyes rested upon the reflection, given by the glass, of the two cousins.  “Look! that tells the story—­worn in heart and spirit, blighted and bitter.  You, Rose—­even you, my own flesh and blood—­will not yield to me—­the only creature, perhaps, that could love me!  Oh! the void, the desert of life, without affection!—­a childless mother—­made so by”—­She burst into tears, and Rose was deeply affected.  She felt far more inclined to yield her child to the desolate heart of Helen Marsh, than to the proud array of Lady ——­; but she also knew her duty.

“Will you grant me this favour,” said Helen at last; “will you let the child decide”—­

“I would not yield to the child’s decision, but you may, if you please, prove her,” answered her mother.

The little girl came softly into the room, having already learned that a bounding step was not meet for “my lady’s chamber.”

“Rosa, listen; will you come with me to London, to ride in a fine coach drawn by four horses—­to wear a velvet frock—­see beautiful sights, and become a great lady.  Will you, dear Rosa, and be my own little girl?”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the child, gleefully; “that I will; that would be so nice—­a coach and four—­a velvet frock—­a great lady—­oh! dear me!” The mother felt her limbs tremble, her heart sink.  “Oh! my own dear mother, will not that be nice? and the beautiful sights you have told me of—­St. Paul’s and Westminster—­oh! mother, we shall be so happy!”

“Not me, Rosa,” answered Mrs. Lynne, with as firm a voice as she could command.  “Now, listen to me:  you might ride in a coach and four, instead of on your little pony—­wear velvet instead of cotton—­see St. Paul’s and Westminster—­but have no more races on the downs, no more peeping into birds’ nests, no more seeing the old church, or hearing its Sabbath bells.  You may become a great lady, but you must leave and forget your father and me.”

“Leave you, and my father and brothers!  You did not mean that surely—­you could not mean that, my lady—­could they not go with me?”

“That would be impossible!”

“Then I will stay here,” said the little girl firmly; “I love them better than every thing else in the world.  Thank you, dear lady, but I cannot leave them.”

“Leave us, then, Rosa,” said Helen, proudly.  The child obeyed with a frightened look, wondering how she had displeased the “grand lady.”

If Helen had been steeped to the very lips in misery, she could not have upbraided the world more bitterly than she did, giving vent to long pent-up feelings, and reproaching Rose, not only for her folly in not complying with her wish, but for her happiness and contentment, which, while she envied, she affected to despise.