been, and Harry was his best self. A boy still, in spite of his
one-and-twenty years, he seemed to feel that Helen's room was a safe
refuge from the temptations that beset one of his thoughtless and
impetuous nature. Here he came to confess his faults and follies
with the frankness which is half sad, half comical, and wholly
charming in a good-hearted young scatter-brain. Here he brought gay
gossip, lively descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world
he moved in. All his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, successes
and defeats, he told to Helen. And she, poor soul, in this one happy
love of her sad life, forgot a little the burden of despair that
darkened all the world to her. For his sake she smiled, to him she
talked when others got no word from her, and Harry's salvation was
the only duty that she owned or tried to fulfil.

A younger sister was away at school, but the others seldom spoke of
her, and Christie tired herself with wondering why Bella never wrote
to Helen, and why Harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of
pity to bestow upon the blooming girl whose picture hung in the
great drawing-room below.

It was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one to Christie, for
she felt herself loved and trusted, saw that she suited, and
believed that she was doing good, as women best love to do it, by
bestowing sympathy and care with generous devotion.

Helen and Harry loved her like an elder sister; Augustine showed
that he was grateful, and Mrs. Carrol sometimes forgot to put on her
mask before one who seemed fast becoming confidante as well as
companion.