him answer?"

"In one little word. I simply said _no_."

"That little word will, no doubt, be enough. O Heaven! what is to
become of us?"

"Dear father!" demands the beautiful girl, laying her hand upon his
shoulder, with a searching look into his eyes; "why do you speak thus?
Are you angry with me for refusing him? Surely you would not wish to
see me the wife of Richard Darke?"

"You do not love him, Helen?"

"Love him! Can you ask? Love that man!"

"You would not marry him?"

"Would not--could not. I'd prefer death."

"Enough; I must submit to my fate."

"Fate, father! What may be the meaning of this? There is some secret--
a danger? Trust to me. Let me know all."

"I may well do that, since it cannot remain much longer a secret. There
_is_ danger, Helen--_the danger of debt_! My estate is mortgaged to the
father of this fellow--so much as to put me completely in his power.
Everything I possess, land, houses, slaves, may become his at any hour;
this day, if he so will it. He is sure to will it now. Your little
word `no,' will bring about a big change--the crisis I've been long
apprehending. Never mind! Let it come! I must meet it like a man. It
is for you, daughter--you and your sister--I grieve. My poor dear
girls; what a change there will be in your lives, as your prospects!
Poverty, coarse fare, coarse garments to wear, and a log-cabin to live
in! Henceforth, this must be your lot. I can hold out hope of no
other."

"What of all that, father? I, for one, care not; and I'm sure sister
will feel the same. But is there no way to--"

"Save me from bankruptcy, you'd say? You need not ask that. I have
spent many a sleepless night thinking it there was. But no; there is
only one--that one. It I have never contemplated, even for an instant,
knowing it would not do. I was sure you did not love Richard Darke, and
would not consent to marry him. You could not, my child?"

Helen Armstrong does not make immediate answer, though there is one
ready to leap to her lips.

She hesitates giving it, from a thought, that it may add to the weight
of unhappiness pressing upon her father's spirit.

Mistaking her silence, and perhaps with the spectre of poverty staring
him in the face--oft inciting to meanness, even the noblest natures--he
repeats the test interrogatory:--

"Tell me, daughter! Could you marry him?"

"Speak candidly," he continues, "and take time to reflect before
answeri