his should be the end of school life? Her whole being rose
up in revolt. She had mentally protested against giving it up for
pleasure, she remembered, but that would have been going on in knowledge
of all kinds, climbing up and up, drinking in the juices of the fruit
ripened and preserved long ago, that would never lose its flavor. And to
take was not all, to give presently, to rouse some unthinking girl as
she had been roused, to reach out a helping hand--yes, she had helped
Juliet Craven over the thorny way, through the dense forest where
learning was well-nigh smothered with parasitic growths that could be
cleared away and let in sunshine. Ah, there were many lives needing it.

And now, when one unlooked-for event had cleared the way, this new one
must arise.

What was her father like? she wondered. She really had no definite or
trustworthy impression of him. As a little child she had stood in great
awe of him, though she could not remember that he had ever been severe
with her. Her mother had complained a good deal, and she always said,
"Your father," as if the child was in some way answerable for the
infelicities. Aunt Jane had given cruel flings sometimes, and generally
scoffed at him as being impractical and a complete failure.

But what hurt Helen the most was that all these years he should not have
cared enough to write even to Uncle Jason. She, Helen, might have died,
or misfortune might have attended Uncle Jason and the house been broken
up, she cast on the charities of the world. He could not know.

How had she come by this fine sense of justice, this clear sight in so
many things, this comprehension of honor and the right of every human
soul? She was suddenly a puzzle to herself. Was this the outgrowth of
the wild, laughing, merry child, ready for any fun or frolic or
mischief, who ran races with boys, and could play ball, climb trees,
jump higher fence-rails than any girl, and be proud of it? Yet, were
not these things modified in the gymnasium? So she need not blush over
it, or be ashamed of the riotous childhood.

And why had she protested so strenuously against going in the shoeshop?
Where did these curious qualities and contradictions come from? Did she
really owe her awakening to Mr. Warfield? Would she have been content in
the Mulford groove but for him? Yet all these feelings and desires must
have been in her brain, inherited from somewhere.

What might not her father demand of her? Perhaps he