fate indeed. Every hour was mapped out for her, every action was to be performed at its appointed time. Mrs. Desmond had recalled, with singular accuracy, the memories of her own school-room days, and upon these Helen's were to be modelled henceforward. From seven to eight o'clock she was to practise. At eight she breakfasted upon the orthodox bread and milk or porridge—both forms of nourishment being detested by badly brought-up Helen—in company with Mrs. Desmond's own maid, who had grown gray in her mistress's service. Breakfast over, her lessons were conned lying on her back, and at nine o'clock her governess—a forbidding-looking female, not at all of the modern type, but possessed of exactly the requirements that had been considered essential in the days of Mrs. Desmond's youth—arrived, and did not leave her pupil for a moment until the evening, when, dressed in a prim white frock and sash, Helen was expected to take her place in her stepmother's drawing-room, where, at a due distance from the fire, and with a proviso that she was to speak when spoken to, she was allowed to amuse herself with a book until the gong sounded for her parents' dinner, when she was supposed to go to bed, with Mrs. Desmond's prim maid again in attendance to put out the light.

It must not be supposed that Helen, her first surprise over, submitted tamely to a life so utterly at variance with her former experiences and so uncongenial to her tastes. On the contrary, she rebelled fiercely, fairly frightening her composed stepmother with her outbursts of passion, and distressing her father, who could not bear to see his little daughter suffer, but who was daily falling more entirely under his wife's influence, and who began to believe, with her, that nothing but this sharp discipline could save Helen from the evil results of her previous bad training.

All his life Colonel Desmond had been completely under the influence of some one person or another. For the last few years he had been Helen's most obedient subject. It soon became evident that her place was being taken by his new wife. Perhaps this was not wonderful. Weak, easy-going, and somewhat broken in health, Colonel Desmond now found himself, for the first time, an object of tender solicitude. His tastes were consulted and his fancies gratified; above all, his wife—pleasant, low-toned, and agreeable to look upon—was constantly at hand to minister to his wants—a gracious, restful presence set in pleasant surroundings—for Mrs. Desmond possessed ample means, and money worries were, for the first time in the colonel's experience, conspicuous by their absence. It can scarcely be wondered at, then, that Colonel Desmond, looking at his wife with her serene untroubled face, and recognizing her perfect propriety of word and action, felt that he could not further Helen's interests more truly than by placing her unreservedly in her stepmother's hands, remembering, too, the wild Irish blood that she had inherited from her mother, for Helen's mother had been a wayward child up to her last hour, and had sorely tried the colonel, notwithstanding the very true love that he had borne her.

Poor Helen! She was the jarring note in this contented, middle-aged household. A grief to her father, who loved her; a terrible perplexity to her well-meaning though prejudiced stepmother. Not at all a terrible-looking little person, although Mrs. Desmond, amongst her most intimate friends, did occasionally lament her stepdaughter's unfortunate plainness. It was an interesting little face, with delicate though sharp features, and large, questioning, restless, blue-gray eyes; sad enough sometimes, but gleaming with fun and mischief on the least provocation. Helen's rough dark hair and her rather angular figure were Mrs. Desmond's despair; but the dark hair showed curious red glints when the sun shone upon it such as would have struck an artist's fancy, and the angular figure was lithe, and gave promise of graceful development when the childish angularity should be out-grown.

Just as it needed a trained eye to discern the possibilities of beauty possessed by Helen, so it required some loving knowledge of young natures to divine the latent good in her. Resentful, passionate, and wayward, she was also deeply affectionate, and her passionate outbreaks were followed by passionate repentance, a repentance that she expressed, however, only to her father, and, as the months went by, rarely even to him; for although his manner towards her was always kind and even loving, she knew, with the unerring instinct of childhood, that his affection was already to a certain extent alienated from her. She did not blame him for this. In her loyal little heart he still reigned supreme, as a being absolutely perfect and noble. It was on her stepmother's unconscious head that all the vials of Helen's wrath were poured. More or less cowed into outward submission, and half broken-spirited by her monotonous life, she hated Mrs. Desmond with a hatred that bade fair to poison her whole nature. To succeed in visibly annoying her stepmother, to bring an angry cloud over her calm face, was a positive pleasure to Helen. Mrs. Desmond had been accustomed to a well-ordered household, and any domestic disturbance was extremely annoying to her. Helen soon discovered this, and although she was supposed not to speak to any member of the household, with the exception of the maid, she delighted in surreptitious visits to the kitchen, and in setting the servants by the ears. Then, again, noises of any kind were Mrs. Desmond's abhorrence. Helen would purposely bang doors, tap with her feet on the floor, even scrape a knife on her plate at luncheon, and feel more than repaid for the sharp reproof which she drew upon herself by watching her stepmother's agonized expression whilst the torture was in progress. That these things were done purposely Mrs. Desmond did not guess, any more than she imagined that the passionate manifestations of affection for her father in which Helen occasionally indulged, were evidences of real love.

As a fact, there was something antagonistic between Mrs. Desmond's rather cold nature and Helen's ardent disposition. Only love and patience could have knit these two together. Mrs. Desmond's theory that a young girl should be treated as an irresponsible being, and forced into the same mould that had successfully moulded former generations if she was to turn out a "nice" woman, was fatal in this instance. The same want of comprehension of the meaning of real education overshadowed Helen's studies. Although, in the orthodox sense of the word, Helen's education had been sadly neglected, she was by no means ignorant. She had seen and observed much; had read, and read intelligently, books that most girls of her age would unhesitatingly pronounce "dry;" while for music she had a genuine talent. This last gift, however, did not help her much under the system of tuition adopted for her. Ordered, for instance, to practise her scales for an hour each day, without receiving any explanation as to the usefulness of such practice, the girl naturally regarded scale-playing as a fresh device for annoying her. Consequently her playing during her early morning practice soon became one of Mrs. Desmond's chief tortures, for each jarring note penetrated through the thin partitions of a London house, and, reaching that unhappy lady's ears, robbed her of her comfortable morning nap. Far too conscientious to put an end to the nuisance for consciously selfish motives, and too lacking in musical taste herself to discern Helen's real talent, she suffered as silently as she could; not so silently, however, but that Helen perceived the annoyance which she caused, and which she took care should continue unabated. But here, as in so many other instances, poor Helen's weapons were turned against herself. Being taken by her father to an afternoon concert, an impromptu pleasure indulged in during a blissful day when her stepmother was away, she was seized with a vehement desire to learn to play the violin. Her father, who fancied that his little