It was in consequence of one of many altercations (in which Martha's
eloquence shone, and in which therefore she was frequently pleased to
indulge) that Francis refused to take his pupils to Bearleader's Green,
where Mr. Coacher's living was, and where Bell was in the habit of
spending the summer: and he bethought him that he would pass the vacation
at his aunt's village, which he had not seen for many years--not since
little Helen was a girl and used to sit on his knee. Down then he came
and lived with them. Helen was grown a beautiful young woman now. The
cousins were nearly four months together, from June to October. They
walked in the summer evenings: they met in the early morn. They read out
of the same book when the old lady dozed at night over the candles. What
little Helen knew, Frank taught her. She sang to him: she gave her
artless heart to him. She was aware of all his story. Had he made any
secret?--had he not shown the picture of the woman to whom he was
engaged, and with a blush,--her letters, hard, eager, and cruel?--The
days went on and on, happier and closer, with more kindness, more
confidence, and more pity. At last one morning in October came, when
Francis went back to college, and the poor girl felt that her tender
heart was gone with him.

Frank too wakened up from the delightful midsummer dream to the horrible
reality of his own pain. He gnashed and tore at the chain which bound
him. He was frantic to break it and be free. Should he confess?--give his
savings to the woman to whom he was bound, and beg his release?--there
was time yet--he temporised. No living might fall in for years to come.
The cousins went on corresponding sadly and fondly: the betrothed woman,
hard, jealous, and dissatisfied, complaining bitterly, and with reason,
of her Francis's altered tone.

At last things came to a crisis, and the new attachment was discovered.