ect to change the gnarled
and rooted oak into the flexible and breeze-bowed willow. Her
idiosyncrasy had been so nursed and strengthened by the two great
influences, time and solitude, it spread like the banyan tree, making a
dark pavilion, where legions of weird spirits gathered and revelled.

Miss Thusa is one instance out of many, of a being with strong mind and
warm heart, cheated of objects on which to expend the vigor of the one,
or the fervor of the other. The energies of her character, finding no
legitimate outlet, beat back upon herself, wearing away by continued
friction the fine perception of beauty and susceptibility of true
enjoyment. The vine that finds no support for its _upward_ growth,
grovels on the earth and covers it with rank, unshapely leaves. The
mountain stream, turned back from its course, becomes a dark and
stagnant pool. Even if the rank and long-neglected vine is made to twine
round some sustaining fabric, it carries with it the dampness and the
soil of the earth to which it has been clinging. Its tendrils are heavy,
and have a downward tendency.

In a few days the fever-tide subsided in the veins of Helen.

"I will not take it," said she, when the young doctor gave her some
bitter draught to swallow; "it tastes too bad."

"You _will_ take it," he replied, calmly, holding the glass in his hand,
and fixing on her the serene darkness of his eyes. He did not press it
to her lips, or use any coercion. He merely looked steadfastly, yet
gently into her face, while the deep color she had noticed the first
night she saw him came slowly into his cheeks. He did not say "you
_must_," but "you _will_," and she felt the difference. She felt the
singular union of gentleness and power exhibited in his countenance, and
was constrained to yield. Without making farther resistance, she put
forth her hand, took the glass, and swallowed the potion at one draught.

"It will do you good," said he, with a grave smile, but he did not
praise her.

"Why didn't you tell me so before?" she asked.

"You must learn to confide in your friends," he replied, passing his
hand gently over the child's wan brow. "You must trust them, without
asking them for reasons for what they do."

Helen thought she would try to remember this, and it seemed easy to
remember what the young doctor said, for the voice of Arthur Hazleton
was very sweet and clear, and seemed to vibrate on the ear like a
musical instrument.

CHAPTER