Mrs Oswald sighed.
“You must not speak so of your father, Hope, he knows what is right better than you do.”
Hope looked sceptical; those frank instinctive impulses of the young heart, which had no complicated mesh of secret motives to hinder its prompt out-going, were perhaps better guides after all than the groping, worldly wisdom of elder minds; wisdom whose wary steps are supposed to be guided by the caution of clear-sightedness, when it is only the timid caution of the blind.
“But I may go to see Helen Buchanan, may I not, mother?” asked Hope, after a pause.
“Surely, Hope; I have no wish to restrain you, and your father will not, I dare say, unless you speak of her again before him, as you did yesterday; and you must be cautious of that, for it only aggravates your father’s prejudice and vexes William, without doing any good.”
“And am I not to speak about Helen at all?” said Hope.
“No, my dear, not now. I do not forbid you praising Helen as frankly as you blame Adelaide Fendie—and you must restrain that last propensity of yours a little, Hope—but do it cautiously and warily, and let me see something of this wisdom and good sense which Miss Swinton has discovered. You see I trust you, Hope.”
Hope drew herself up.
“I will be very careful, mother, no fear, but may I go to see Helen now?”
“Helen will be busy now, Hope.”