As the years went by, Helena grew up, as Mrs. Hannay proudly said,
the image of what she herself had been at her age--tall and
fair, indolent and selfish, fond of dress and gayety, discontented
because their means would not permit them to indulge in either to
the fullest extent. There was nothing in common between her and her
sister, who, when at home for the holidays, spent her time almost
entirely with her brother, who received but slight attention from
anyone else, his deformity being considered as a personal injury
and affliction by his mother and elder sister.

"You could not care less for him," Isobel once said, in a fit
of passion, "if he were a dog. I don't think you notice him more,
not one bit. He wanders about the house without anybody to give a
thought to him. I call it cruel, downright cruel."

"You are a wicked girl, Isobel," her mother said angrily, "a
wicked, violent girl, and I don't know what will become of you. It
is abominable of you to talk so, even if you are wicked enough to
get into a passion. What can we do for him that we don't do? What
is the use of talking to him when he never pays attention to what
we say, and is always moping. I am sure we get everything that we
think will please him, and he goes out for a walk with us every
day; what could possibly be done more for him?"

"A great deal more might be done for him," Isobel burst out. "You
might love him, and that would be everything to him. I don't believe
you and Helena love him, not one bit, not one tiny scrap."

"Go up to your room, Isobel, and remain there for the rest of the
day. You are a very bad girl. I shall write to Miss Virtue about