“I’ve discovered that already,” said Helen, laughing.

“All that you must do, my love,” went on the other, “is to realize what is before you, and make up your mind to what you want.  You know that your tastes are not those of a poor woman; you have been accustomed to comfort, and you need refinement and wealth; you could never be happy unless you could entertain your friends properly, and live as you pleased.”

“But I don’t want to marry a man just for his money,” protested the girl, not altogether pleased with her aunt’s business-like view.

“No one wants you to,” the other responded; “you may marry for love if you like; but it is not impossible to love a rich man, is it, Helen?”

“But, Aunt Polly,” said Helen, “I am satisfied as I am now.  I do not want to marry anybody.  The very idea makes me shudder.”

“I am not in the least anxious that you should,” was the answer.  “You are young, and you may choose your own time.  All I am anxious for is that you should realize the future that is before you.  It is dreadful to me to think that you might throw your precious chance away by some ridiculous folly.”

Helen looked at her aunt for a moment, and then the irrepressible smile broke out.

“What is the matter, child?” asked the other.

“Nothing, except that I was thinking about how these thoughts were brought up.”

“How do you mean?”

“Apropos of my woodland walk with poor Arthur.  Auntie, I do believe you’re afraid I’m going to fall in love with the dear fellow.”

“No,” said Aunt Polly; “it is not exactly that, for I’d never be able to sleep at night if I thought you capable of anything quite so ghastly.  But we must have some care of what people will think, my dear Helen.”

As a matter of fact, Aunt Polly did have some very serious fears about the matter, as has been hinted before; it was, perhaps, a kind of tribute to the divine fire which even society’s leaders pay.  If it had been a question of a person of her own sense and experience, the word “genius” would have suggested no danger to Mrs. Roberts, but it was different with a young and probably sentimental person like Helen, with her inflaming beauty.

“As a matter of fact, Aunt Polly,” said Helen, “everybody understands my intimacy with Arthur.”

“Tell me, Helen dear,” said the other, turning her keen glance upon her; “tell me the honest truth.”

“About what?”

“You are not in love with Arthur?”

And Helen answered her with her eyes very wide open:  “No, I certainly am not in the least.”

And the other drew secretly a great breath of relief.  “Is he in love with you, Helen?” she asked.

As Helen thought of Arthur’s departure, the question could not but bring a smile.  “I—­I’m afraid he is,” she said.—­“a very little.”

“What a ridiculous impertinence!” exclaimed the other, indignantly.