"Say on, then, madam; I am listening."
"I am aware—ahem!—I have long taken note," continued her mother, "of a growing intimacy—a friendship, I may say, and perhaps something more—between you and this Mr. McGuilp, our guest. I know that he has done us all a great service—a service that none of us can ever forget, and you in particular, since he saved your life. It is therefore only natural and proper that you should feel grateful towards him, and regard him in the light of a friend, and as a friend, I hope, we shall ever esteem him; but listen, now, my girl, to what I say. A too intimate friendship between a young couple, out of different stations in life, such as in the case of yourself, who are only the daughter of a country inn-keeper, and a gentleman born and educated like Mr. McGuilp, who is, besides, enormously rich, having inherited all his uncle's fortune and estates, and consequently moves in the very best society. Such intimacies are dangerous, and may lead on to trouble before you are aware."
"How, mother?"
"Bless the child!" answered her mother, impatiently, "must I tell you everything? Must I make you as wise as myself? No; there are things I can't discuss with you. What I want of you is to be patient, and obey."
"You—all of you—treat me like a child," broke in Helen, reproachfully.
"And so you are," retorted her mother; "therefore take advice. The feeling that the world calls love—love, I say, that speaks not of marriage is denounced as sin by the laws of God and man."
"Well, that's strange," mused Helen. "Then, one may not love a friend, a parent, a child, without marrying them?"
"I have no time to quibble," replied her mother, with some asperity, "but would simply remark that whatever your feelings may be towards Mr. McGuilp, or his towards you, nothing but harm and unhappiness can be the lot of you both—without marriage. Now, you can't well expect a rich gentleman like Mr. McGuilp to displease all his friends by marrying a penniless girl like yourself—country bred, without education, who knows nothing of the world and society, when he could marry some high-born lady out of his own class—some rich heiress, educated and accomplished, who would grace the society to which he belongs. He might be a great man in the county, and enter Parliament, with such a wife, while you would only drag him down to your level."
Helen had already hidden her face in her hands, and her bare shoulders heaved convulsively, while the hot tears trickled through her fingers.
"Cease, mother! Oh! cease, in pity!" she cried. "I cannot bear it."