"There is Helen in the lime-walk," said Mrs. Collingwood to her husband, as
she looked out of the window. The slight figure of a young person in deep
mourning appeared between the trees,--"How slowly she walks! She looks very
unhappy!"

"Yes," said Mr. Collingwood, with a sigh, "she is young to know sorrow, and
to struggle with difficulties to which she is quite unsuited both by nature
and by education, difficulties which no one could ever have foreseen. How
changed are all her prospects!"

"Changed indeed!" said Mrs. Collingwood, "pretty young creature!--Do you
recollect how gay she was when first we came to Cecilhurst? and even last
year, when she had hopes of her uncle's recovery, and when he talked of
taking her to London, how she enjoyed the thoughts of going there! The
world was bright before her then. How cruel of that uncle, with all his
fondness for her, never to think what was to become of her the moment he
was dead: to breed her up as an heiress, and leave her a beggar!"

"But what is to be done, my dear?" said her husband.

"I am sure I do not know; I can only feel for her, you must think for her."

"Then I think I must tell her directly of the state in which her uncle's
affairs are left, and that there is no provision for her."

"Not yet, my dear," said Mrs, Collingwood: "I don't mean about there being
no provision for herself, that would not strike her, but her uncle's
debts,--there is the point: she would feel dreadfully the disgrace to his
memory--she loved him so tenderly!"