Helen Grant's Schooldays

by Amanda M. Douglas

"As if the money was not hers to do what she chose with it," said Miss Gage. "And it seems as if the Van Dorn relatives would be the ones to object since the money came that way. I am glad she had her own satisfactory life, and she has made others happy as well, even if there is not much left."

Mr. Fenton found that he could not take the matter in hand himself, and that he must wait for the due process of law before he could get even the small sum that would come to him. Mrs. Aldred had to say good-by and go to the steamer. Helen was to write to her and she still strongly advised her going back to Aldred House. Would it be possible?

Mr. Castles brought out the pretty box of treasures and delivered it to Helen. The clerk would put her on the train and see her started on her journey; Miss Gage had to remain with the lawyer, but her good-by was very sympathetic and tender, and she, too, begged Helen to write, as she should always take a deep interest in her.

Helen settled herself for the long journey and the endeavor to disentangle the events that had so crowded upon her these few days. Whether she should go back to Aldred House did not altogether depend upon herself. True, one perplexing question was settled—she took out her envelope and examined its contents. Five fifty-dollar bills, a ten, and a five beside. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars. She could go through another year successfully, and though she would still be young, she could no doubt find a place to teach.

But what if this should be the end of school life? Her whole being rose up in revolt. She had mentally protested against giving it up for pleasure, she remembered, but that would have been going on in knowledge of all kinds, climbing up and up, drinking in the juices of the fruit ripened and preserved long ago, that would never lose its flavor. And to take was not all, to give presently, to rouse some unthinking girl as she had been roused, to reach out a helping hand—yes, she had helped Juliet Craven over the thorny way, through the dense forest where learning was well-nigh smothered with parasitic growths that could be cleared away and let in sunshine. Ah, there were many lives needing it.

And now, when one unlooked-for event had cleared the way, this new one must arise.

What was her father like? she wondered. She really had no definite or trustworthy impression of him. As a little child she had stood in great awe of him, though she could not remember that he had ever been severe with her. Her mother had complained a good deal, and she always said, "Your father," as if the child was in some way answerable for the infelicities. Aunt Jane had given cruel flings sometimes, and generally scoffed at him as being impractical and a complete failure.

But what hurt Helen the most was that all these years he should not have cared enough to write even to Uncle Jason. She, Helen, might have died, or misfortune might have attended Uncle Jason and the house been broken up, she cast on the charities of the world. He could not know.

How had she come by this fine sense of justice, this clear sight in so many things, this comprehension of honor and the right of every human soul? She was suddenly a puzzle to herself. Was this the outgrowth of the wild, laughing, merry child, ready for any fun or frolic or mischief, who ran races with boys, and could play ball, climb trees, jump higher fence-rails than any girl, and be proud of it? Yet, were not these things modified in the gymnasium? So she need not blush over it, or be ashamed of the riotous childhood.

And why had she protested so strenuously against going in the shoeshop? Where did these curious qualities and contradictions come from? Did she really owe her awakening to Mr. Warfield? Would she have been content in the Mulford groove but for him? Yet all these feelings and desires must have been in her brain, inherited from somewhere.