ad, she answered: "Have I not told you so? I have been anxious
about my father lately and do not feel myself to-day. Surely you have
no wish further to torment me."

"No, but I mean to finish what I have to say. Do you know all that man
is doing for you? He has----" But Mrs. Savine ceased abruptly,
remembering she had in return for her husband's confidence promised
secrecy.

"Yes. I think I know everything," replied Helen, with something
suspiciously like a sob, while her aunt broke her pledge to the extent
of shaking her head with a gesture of negation. "It--it makes it worse
for me. I dare not bid him go away, and I grow horribly ashamed
because--because it hurts one to be conscious of so heavy a debt.
Besides, he is consoling himself with Mrs. Leslie!"

"Geoffrey Thurston would be the last man to consider you owed him
anything, and as to Mrs. Leslie--pshaw! It's as sure as death,
Geoffrey doesn't care two bits for her. He would never let you feel
that debt, my dear, but the debt is there. From what Tom has told me
he has declined offer after offer, and you know that, if he carries
this last scheme through, the credit and most of the money will fall to
your father."

"I know." The moisture gathered in Helen's eyes. "I am grateful, very
grateful--as I said, ashamed, too; but my father comes first. I tried
to warn Geoffrey, but he would not take no. I feel almost frightened
sometimes lest he will force me to yield against my will, but you know
that would be a wrong to him--and what can I do?"

Helen, unclasping her hands from her aunt's, looked straight before
her, and Mrs. Savine answered gently: "Not that. No--if you can't like
him it would not be fair to him. Only try to be kind, and make quite
sure it is impossible. It might have been better for poor Geoffrey if
he had never mixed himself up with us. You, with all your good points,
are mighty proud, my dear, but I have seen proud women find out their
mistake when it was too late to set things straight. Wait, and without
the help of a meddlesome old woman, it will perhaps all come right some
day."

"Auntie," said Helen, looking down, some minutes later. "Though you
meant it in kindness, I am almost vexed with you. I have never spoken
of these things to anyone before, and though it has comforted me, you
won't remind me--will you?"

"No." The older woman smiled upon the girl. "Of course not! But you
are pale and worried, and I believe