“Miss Davis has granted me the very great favor,” said Mr. Harrison; “I fear I shall be happier than I ought to be, considering what suffering I leave behind.”

“It will do no good to worry about it,” said Mrs. Roberts, a reflection which often keeps the world from wasting its sympathy.  “I shall have your carriage brought round.”

“Isn’t it rather early to start?” asked Helen.

“I don’t know,” said her aunt; “is it?”

“We can take a little drive if it is,” said Mr. Harrison; “I mean that Miss Davis shall think a great deal of my horses.”

Helen said nothing, but stood gazing in front of her across the lawns, her mind in a tempest of emotions.  She could not put away from her the excitement that Mr. Harrison’s presence brought; the visions of wealth and power which gleamed before her almost overwhelmed her with their vastness.  But she had also the memory of her morning resolve to trouble her conscience; the result was the same confused helplessness, the dazed and frightened feeling which she so rebelled against.

“I do not want to be troubled in this way,” she muttered angrily to herself, again and again; “I wish to be let alone, so that I can be happy!”

Yet there was no chance just then for her to find an instant’s peace, or time for further thought; there were half a dozen people about her, and she was compelled to listen to and answer commonplace remarks about the beauty of the country in front of her, and about her singing on the previous evening.

She had to stifle her agitation as best she could, and almost before she realized it her aunt had come to summon her to get ready for the drive.

Helen hoped to have a moment’s quiet then; but there was nothing to be done but put on her hat and gloves, and Mrs. Roberts was with her all the time.  “Helen,” she said pleadingly, as she watched the girl surveying herself in the glass, “I do hope you will not forget all that I told you.”

“I wish you would let me alone about it!” cried Helen, very peevishly.

“If you only knew, my dear girl, how much I have done for you,” replied the other, “and how I’ve planned and looked forward to this time, I don’t think you’d answer me in that way.”

“It isn’t that, Aunt Polly,” exclaimed Helen, “but I am so confused and I don’t know what to think.”

“I am trying my poor, humble best to show you what to think.  And you could not possibly feel more worried than I just now; Helen, you could be rid of all these doubts and struggles in one instant, if you chose.  Ask yourself if it is not true; you have only to give yourself into the arms of the happiness that calls you.  And you never will get rid of the matter in any other way,—­indeed you will not!  If you should fling away this chance, the memory of it would never leave you all your life; after you knew it was too late, you would torment yourself a thousand times more than ever you can now.”