affection. It was more by what she left unsaid than by what she said that she conveyed to the colonel a bad impression of Helen's disposition, and spoilt the happy, unrestrained intercourse that had hitherto subsisted between these two.

Such was the position of affairs at the time of Mary Macleod's visit. That quick-witted lady had guessed it pretty accurately from her cousin's conversation. Perhaps it interested her, for she watched Helen keenly from the moment that she became aware of the girl's presence. She smiled very pleasantly as Helen, in obedience to her stepmother's command, approached the visitor, and not at all repelled, seemingly, by the unwilling little hand that was laid in hers, she drew Helen's face down and kissed it, saying in a warm voice, to which the slight northern burr gave a homely sound:

"So you are my new cousin. I am a relation, you know—Cousin Mary. But, bless me, child, how cold your hands are! Come and sit by the fire and I will warm them."

A smile came upon Helen's face, although she drew back a little proudly.

"I am not cold, thank you," she said, and moved away.

Miss Macleod made no effort to detain her. She understood young people too well to try to force them into friendliness, and, as I have said, she had already made a tolerably shrewd guess as to the true state of the case. Taking up her knitting, she continued her chat with Mrs. Desmond in spite of the latter's rather constrained replies, for childless Cousin Mary's passion for young people was well known in her family, and Mrs. Desmond began to feel fidgety lest her guest might even temporarily interfere with Helen's training. It was a relief when the colonel entered the room smiling, happy, and friendly. After a few words of greeting to his guest he turned to inform his wife of some rather important news that had arrived from India by that day's mail. Upon this Miss Macleod put down her knitting and beckoned to Helen, pointing to a low chair by her side.

"Your book must be very absorbing," she said smilingly as Helen obeyed.

"No, it isn't," returned the girl abruptly. "I think it is the dullest book I ever read."

"Why don't you put it down then and talk to us?"

"Because," began Helen, with an ominous look in her stepmother's direction, "because"—but just then that lady, who had been listening to her husband with one ear and to Helen with the other, broke in:

"What is the dullest book you ever read?"

"This. Amy Herbert."

"That is grateful, Helen, seeing the pains I took to get it for you."

"And such a gorgeous-looking book too," put in the colonel, always eager to make peace.

Helen said nothing, but drew back her chair a little with a grating sound, while Mrs. Desmond frowned and went on:

"Amy Herbert is a book that has delighted hundreds of children. I can remember that when I was a girl, I knew every line of it. It is a pity that you do not lay to heart some of the lessons it teaches. But young people won't be taught nowadays."

"I think you are a little hard on young people, Margaret," put in Cousin Mary's pleasant voice. "We grown-up people are influenced by the feelings of our day. Books that appealed to our grandmothers don't affect us. Children are subject to the same influences. It is quite possible—"

"I can't see it," interrupted Mrs. Desmond with most unusual vehemence. "What was good enough for my aunts, for instance, is quite good enough for me, and always will be, I hope."

"My dear," interposed the colonel mildly, "would you write that note for me before dinner? It is important not to miss a single post."

Mrs. Desmond sighed gently, but rose with a resigned air to comply with her husband's request. He followed her to her writing-table, leaving Cousin Mary and Helen alone.

That notion of Miss Macleod's, that grown-up people and children were not set wide as the poles asunder, but were close akin to one another, struck Helen immensely, and made Cousin Mary seem quite an approachable being in this young girl's eyes, and instinctively she drew closer to this new relative with a pleasant sensation of confidence.

"I'll tell you what I was doing when you two were talking," she said, with the sudden burst of friendliness that comes so strangely from a lonely child. "I was thinking."

"Thinking, Helen! Were your thoughts worth a penny?"

Helen was not to be dealt lightly with. She was very serious.

"I heard what you were saying when I came into the room," she went on. "And I wondered what you meant when you said that children must belong to their generation."

Cousin Mary looked grave.

"It would take a long time to explain all that I meant," she said. "Perhaps we shall have a chance of talking it over before I leave. I didn't mean that the girls and boys of to-day have any excuse for being naughty and rebellious. But I sometimes think that as we grown-up people move about so much, and are tempted to grow restless and impatient, so the same influences may affect children to a certain extent, and that a very strict routine may be a little more irksome to them now than it was to us thirty years ago."

"Oh, it is dreadful!—dreadful!" murmured Helen.

"Nonsense! Not dreadful, only perhaps a little tiresome."

Helen's tone had been tragic, but there was a gleam of fun in Cousin Mary's eyes as she replied that brought a smile to the girl's face.

"Very tiresome," she said. "I hate lessons."

"They are a little wee bit trying sometimes, I grant. And yet we must learn them; must go on learning them all our lives."

Cousin Mary's face had grown grave again, and Helen began to think her the most perplexing person that she had ever met.

"Go on learning!" she repeated. "Grown-up people don't learn lessons."

"Not book lessons exactly, though I think I have learnt more book lessons even since I have been grown up than I did in the school-room. But that is a matter of choice. There are certain lessons that we must learn, because God goes on teaching them to us until we really know them."

"Oh! What are they?" asked Helen in an awe-struck whisper.

"I think obedience is one," replied Cousin Mary, with that little smile lurking in her eyes again. "I am dreadfully disobedient sometimes, but I am always sorry for it afterwards, I think. Perhaps some day I shall learn to know that my way is not best, and then I sha'n't want to be disobedient again."

"You disobedient!"

"It is quite true. For instance, I didn't want to come up to town at this particular time. I very nearly said I wouldn't come. You see, my doing so interfered with some very pleasant plans that I had made. That was why I did not like it, although I knew all the time that I ought to come. Now I begin to be very glad that I did not follow my own way, not only because I have done my duty, but because I have found a new cousin whom I mean to like very much."

The expression of Helen's face altered as she listened to her new friend's words. Her eyes, that had been heavy and downcast, lit up; she raised her head and threw back her hair with something of her old, careless gesture.

"I like you very, very much," she said, "although you do say such strange things. I wish—"

Just then Cousin Mary's ball of wool fell from her lap and rolled away to some distance. Helen sprang to her feet and rushed to fetch it. At the same time Mrs. Desmond left her writing-table, and, shivering a little, rejoined her cousin by the fire. As she did so Helen brushed past her, holding the recovered ball in her hands. The action was not a courteous one, and Mrs. Desmond's displeasure was not mitigated by observing the girl's heightened colour and altered expression.

"You are exceedingly awkward and clumsy," she said, smoothing her laces, which had been displaced by Helen's rough contact. "I wonder what my cousin will think of such a little barbarian. You had better say good-night and go to bed at once. Perhaps that will teach you to