“While they expect the most implicit compliance on your part with every scheme they have devised for your benefit.”
“Very true,” chimed in Helen, who assented at random.
“Sad alternative,” sighed Lady Eleanor, “between such rash friendship and the lukewarm kindness of our courtly cousin.”
“I think not!” said Helen, who fancied she was still following the current of her mother's reflections.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, iu astonishment, while she looked at her daughter for an explanation.
“I quite agree with you, mamma,” cried Helen, blushing as she spoke, for she was suddenly recalled to herself.
“The more fortunate is the acquiescence, my dear,” said Lady Eleanor, dryly, “since it seems perfectly instinctive. I find, Helen, you have not been a very attentive listener, and as I conclude I must have been a very unamusing companion, I'll even say good-night; nay, my sweet child, it is late enough not to seek excuse for weariness—goodnight.”
Helen blushed deeply; dissimulation was a very difficult task to her, and for a moment seemed more than her strength could bear. She had resolved to place the letter in her mother's hands, when the thought flashed across her, that if its contents might occasion any sudden or severe shock, she would never forgive herself. This mental struggle, brief as it was, brought the tears to her eyes,—an emotion Lady Eleanor attributed to a different cause, as she said,—
“You do not suppose, my dearest Helen, that I am angry because your thoughts took a pleasanter path than my owu.”
“Oh, no,-no!” cried Helen, eagerly, “I know you are not. It is my own—” She stopped; another word would have revealed everything, and with an affectionate embrace she hurried from the room.