"I think you are a little hard on young people, Margaret," put in Cousin Mary's pleasant voice. "We grown-up people are influenced by the feelings of our day. Books that appealed to our grandmothers don't affect us. Children are subject to the same influences. It is quite possible—"
"I can't see it," interrupted Mrs. Desmond with most unusual vehemence. "What was good enough for my aunts, for instance, is quite good enough for me, and always will be, I hope."
"My dear," interposed the colonel mildly, "would you write that note for me before dinner? It is important not to miss a single post."
Mrs. Desmond sighed gently, but rose with a resigned air to comply with her husband's request. He followed her to her writing-table, leaving Cousin Mary and Helen alone.
That notion of Miss Macleod's, that grown-up people and children were not set wide as the poles asunder, but were close akin to one another, struck Helen immensely, and made Cousin Mary seem quite an approachable being in this young girl's eyes, and instinctively she drew closer to this new relative with a pleasant sensation of confidence.
"I'll tell you what I was doing when you two were talking," she said, with the sudden burst of friendliness that comes so strangely from a lonely child. "I was thinking."
"Thinking, Helen! Were your thoughts worth a penny?"
Helen was not to be dealt lightly with. She was very serious.
"I heard what you were saying when I came into the room," she went on. "And I wondered what you meant when you said that children must belong to their generation."
Cousin Mary looked grave.