Her plan had been for Helen to remain in England and enter a training school for nurses. England was a better place for that sort of thing than France and it meant that Helen would be established quite independently some distance from home and earning her living in an honourable way. Not that she had put the plan as clearly as this to Helen, but she had written it to Mrs. Sanford, trusting to that gentle soul's persuasion to carry it into effect.
"If Helen only had a little grit!" thought Madame Ribot. "Now if it were Henriette——"
Awaiting the girls' return, on the mantelpiece of the dining-room, with a number of letters for Henriette was a letter from Paris for Helen. When she opened it she forgot any twinge of suffering because her mother had kissed Henriette on both cheeks and embraced her, while giving the other daughter a dab on one cheek. Helen was breathing very hard and holding the letter so tight in her fingers that it trembled. She had read it through twice to make quite certain that her eyes were not deceiving her, before her cry of delight made Madame Ribot and Henriette, who was running through her own letters to see which she should open first, turn.
"Oh, it is good—good—good!" she repeated. "M. Vailliant is coming to look at my charcoals to see if I have enough for an exhibition. If I have that means I shall make a lot. You're bound to, everybody says, at one of his exhibitions."
Neither Madame Ribot nor Henriette had spoken. They seemed startled by the violence of her enthusiasm.
"Aren't you glad?" Helen asked, suddenly becoming very still.
"Glad! Who should be glad if not I?" said her mother feelingly.
Henriette slipped her arm around Helen's waist.
"And I, you dear mouse, when you've worked so long and hard! It's a triumph," she said.
Helen nestled her head on her sister's shoulder and drew deep, long breaths, while Madame Ribot took up the letter.