"Must I?" she said feebly.

"We have been hard upon you, child, I daresay. I have been thinking, God knows——"

Her father's tone, almost more than his words, touched the girl's generous heart.

"It is I who am bad—wicked," she whispered, throwing her arms round his neck. "Forgive me, dear."

This whispered conversation occupied but a few seconds. Before many minutes had passed Helen and her father, seated hand in hand, were driving homewards. The sound of wheels brought Mrs. Desmond to the head of the stairs. Her face bore signs of genuine emotion, but her expression hardened when she saw her husband cross the hall leading Helen, who hung back a little.

"Oh! John," she cried, "I am thankful to see you back safely. Going out without a coat, too! No one knows the anxiety I have endured."

Colonel Desmond made no reply, but he put his arm round Helen and half-forced her upstairs.

"Wife," he said, "come here;" and they all three went into the drawing-room.

"Margaret," he went on, and as he took her unresponsive hand and forced her to approach Helen, there was an appeal in his voice that must have touched a less self-absorbed woman, "Margaret, we have all something to forgive. I think we have been a little hard on the child. I have realized that through these fearful hours—hours that I shall never forget. God has given her back to us. Let us take her as from Him, and let this night be as if it had never been except for the lesson it has taught us."

"I do not understand heroics," said Mrs. Desmond coldly, moving away a little. "Helen has behaved shamefully, but if you wish her fault to be condoned, I have no more to say."