believe I
am speaking to my father's friend," she said; "my name is Helena
Gracedieu."

Here was one of the Minister's two "daughters"; and that one of the
two--as I discovered the moment I shook hands with her--who was my
friend's own child. Miss Helena recalled to me her mother's face,
infinitely improved by youth and health, and by a natural beauty which
that cruel and deceitful woman could never have possessed. The slanting
forehead and the shifting, flashing eyes, that I recollected in the
parent, were reproduced (slightly reproduced, I ought to say) in the
child. As for the other features, I had never seen a more beautiful nose
and mouth, or a more delicately-shaped outline, than was presented by
the lower part of the face. But Miss Helena somehow failed to charm me.
I doubt if I should have fallen in love with her, even in the days when
I was a foolish young man.

The first question that I put, as we drove from the station to the
house, related naturally to her father.

"He is very ill," she began; "I am afraid you must prepare yourself to
see a sad change. Nerves. The mischief first showed itself, the doctor
tells us, in derangement of his nervous system. He has been, I regret
to tell you, obstinate in refusing to give up his preaching and pastoral
work. He ought to have tried rest at the seaside. Things have gone on
from bad to worse. Last Sunday, at the beginning of his sermon, he broke
down. Very, very sad, is it not? The doctor says that precious time has
been lost, and he must make up his mind to resign his charge. He won't
hear of it. You are his old friend. Please try to persuade him."

Fluently spoken; the words well chosen; the melodious voice reminding
me of the late Mrs. Gracedieu's advantages in that respect; little
sighs judiciously thrown in here and there, just at the right places;
everything, let me own, that could present a dutiful daughter as a
pattern of propriety--and nothing, let me add, that could produce an
impression on my insensible temperament. If I had not been too discreet
to rush at a hasty conclusion, I might have been inclined to say: her
mother's child, every inch of her!

The interest which I was still able to feel in my friend's domestic
affairs centered in the daughter whom he had adopted.

In her infancy I had seen the child, and liked her; I was the one person
living (since the death of Mrs. Gracedieu) who knew how the Minister had
concealed the sad secret of her paren