her nature, and no girl of fourteen has them all definite
at once. Some get toned down, some flash out here and there, and those
of real worth come to have a steady shining light later on. But she
never could hear Aunt Jane say "Ad Grant" in the peculiar tone she used
without a sharp pang. For Addison Grant was her father, that is if he
was still alive, and when Aunt Jane wanted to be particularly
tormenting, she was sure he was roaming the world somewhere, and
forgetting that he had a child.

Sixteen years before he had come to Hope Center and taught school. A
tall, thin nondescript sort of man, a college graduate, but that didn't
raise him in anyone's estimation. He was queer and always working at
some kind of problems, and doing bits of translating from old Latin and
Greek writers, and spent his money for books that he considered of
great value. Why pretty Kitty Mulford should have married him was a
mystery, but why he should have taken her would have seemed a greater
puzzle to intellectual people. They went to one of the larger cities,
where he taught, then to another, and so on; and when Helen was seven
her mother came back to the Center a hopeless invalid with consumption,
and died. Mr. Grant seemed very much broken. No one knew what a trial
the frivolous, childish wife had been. He _was_ disappointed at not
having a son. He had some peculiar ideas about a boy's education, and he
didn't know what to do with a girl. So he left her with her aunt and
uncle, and for four years sent them two hundred dollars a year for her
keep. Then he went to Europe without so much as coming to say good-by,
and no one had ever heard of him since.

Helen's memories of her mother were not delightful enough to build an
altar to remembrance. She had fretted a good deal. When she was out of
temper she slapped Helen on the shoulder, and said she was "just like
her father." Helen waited on her, changed her slippers, brushed her
hair, and would have made a famous nurse if the end had not come. And
then the life was so different.

The Mulfords were in many respects happy-go-lucky people. Aunt Jane
scolded a good deal, or rather talked in a very scolding tone. But the
children came up without much governing. Once in a while Uncle Jason
struck one of them with his old gray felt hat; Helen didn't remember
ever seeing him have a new one, but he wore a black one on Sunday. There
were five rollicking children, and one daughter grown, who was enga