'She is very young too. We are poor, dear; and she has nothing, you tell me.'
'She is one of those girls, mother, who, having nothing, yet have all.'
She smiled, and stroked my hand, and then turned her head as though in a reverie, and fixed her eyes for a little space upon my father's picture.
'We know nothing of her parents,' said she.
'She has her mother's portrait. It tells its own story. We know who and what her father was. But you shall question her, mother. I see her kneeling at your side telling you her little life-history.'
At this moment the house-door knocker was set clattering by a hand that I very well knew could belong to no other man than Mr. Trembath. I was too impatient to await the attendance of a servant, and, rushing to the door, brought Helga into the parlour. The clergyman followed, and as Helga stood in the doorway he peered over her shoulder at my mother. The dear girl was pale and nervous, yet sweet and fresh and fair beyond words did she look, and my heart leapt up in my breast to the instant thought that my mother could not see her without being won.
The pause was but for a moment; my mother rose and looked at the girl. It was a swift, penetrating gaze, that vanished in a fine warm cordial smile.
'Welcome to our little home, Helga!' said she, and, stepping up to her, she took her by the hands, kissed her on both cheeks, and drew her to the sofa.
'Well, good-bye for the present, Hugh,' exclaimed Mr. Trembath.
'I will accompany you,' said I.