his dead daughter's child on the one side, a
sense of absolute necessity on the other, kept the two together. Their
natures were inharmonious. They kept up a form of affection and intimacy
openly; in reality, they had not one single thought in common.

It is not too much to say that Mr. Harlowe positively disliked his
grand-daughter. He had, perhaps, good reason for it. Helen had been
nothing but a trouble to him. He had not desired to bring up a young
lady in his house; he had not wished for the society which her presence
entailed, nor for the dissipations of London life into which he was
dragged more or less against his will. Added to which, Helen had not
striven to please him in essential matters. She had married a gambling,
drinking blackguard, whom he had forbidden to enter his doors; and now,
when she might retrieve her position, and marry well and creditably, she
refused to make the slightest effort to meet his views.

Helen's life was a mystery to all but herself. To the world she was a
pretty, lively little widow, with a good house to live in, and sufficient
money of her own to spend to very good effect upon her back, with not a
single duty or responsibility in her existence, and with no other
occupation in life than to amuse herself. At her heart Helen knew herself
to be a soured and disappointed woman, who had desired one thing all her
life, and who, having attained with great pains and toil that forbidden
fruit which she had coveted, had found it turn, as such fruits too often
do, to dust and ashes between her teeth. It was to have been sweet as
honeydew--and behold, it was nothing but bitterness!

She stood at the window looking out at the waning light of the November
afternoon. She was handsomely dressed in dark-green velvet, with a heavy
old-fashioned gold chain round her neck; every now and then she looked at
her watch, and a frown passed over her brow. The old man was bending over
the fire behind her.

"Gone to Kynaston, is he? Humph! that is your fault, you frightened him
off."

"Did I set my cap at him so palpably then?" said Helen, with a short,
hard laugh.

"You know very well what I mean," answered her grandfather, sulkily. "Set
your cap! No, you only do that to the men you know I don't approve of,
and who don't want you."

Helen winced a little. "You put things very coarsely, grandpapa," she
said, and laughed again. "I am sorry I have been unable to make love to
Sir John Kynaston to please