ane had gone at making shortcake. The children
followed their cousin out to the gate and showered her with good-bys,
staring hard at the old lady in the carriage.

CHAPTER V

A GIRL'S DREAMS

Helen's face was flushed as she stepped into the carriage, but she held
her head up with dignity and smiled. The curious two sides of her, was
it brain, or mind, or that perplexing inner sight? saw the wide
difference between Mrs. Van Dorn and Aunt Jane. And she liked the Van
Dorn side a hundred times better than the Mulford side. The delicacy,
the ease, the sort of graciousness, even if it was a garment put on and
sometimes slipped off very easily. Mrs. Van Dorn was never quite
satisfied. She was always reaching out for something, a pleasure and
entertainment. Aunt Jane was thoroughly satisfied with herself. She
scolded Uncle Jason and insisted that he lacked common sense, energy,
and a host of virtues, yet she often said of her neighbors' husbands:
"Well, if I had that man I'd ship him off to the Guinea Coast," though
she hadn't the slightest idea of its location. She often held him up to
the admiration of her friends, though she always insisted she had been
the making of him. And she would not admit that there was a smarter girl
in Hope Center than Jenny.

The peculiar contrast flashed over Helen. What made the
complacency--content?

"Did you have a pleasant call?" When Mrs. Van Dorn didn't feel cross her
voice had a certain sweetness. Helen thought the word mellifluous
expressed it. She was fond of pretty adjectives.

"Aunt Jane was very busy and they all set in for me to stay. The
children do miss me."

"And did you want to stay?" with the same sweetness.

"No," said Helen, honestly, while the color deepened in her cheeks. "Oh,
dear! I think I am getting spoiled, citified, and North Hope isn't a
city either," with a half rueful little laugh, yet not raising her eyes.

"She isn't of their kind," thought Mrs. Van Dorn. "And her courage, her
truthfulness, are quite unusual. She is very trusty, there is the making
of something fine in her."

"You are not fond of country life, farm life," correcting herself.

"I am quite sure I shouldn't be, and yet I like the country so much,
the space, the waving trees, the great stretches of sky. I should stifle
in a place where there were rows and rows of houses and paved streets
everywhere."

"But not where there were palaces, and villas, and parks, and gardens,
and bea