hink the rough reception she gave you, would preclude the
desire for a second visit," said Mittie.

"Oh! I like to conquer difficulties," he exclaimed. "The greater the
obstacles, the greater the triumph."

Perhaps he meant nothing more than met the ear, but Mittie's omnipotent
self-love felt wounded. She had been too easy a conquest, whose value
was already beginning to lessen.

"Miss Thusa and Helen are such especial friends," she added, without
seeming to have heard his remark, "that I should think their first
meeting had better be private. I suspect Miss Thusa has manufactured a
new set of ghost stories for Helen's peculiar benefit."

"Are you a believer in ghosts?" asked Clinton of Helen. "If so, I envy
you."

"Envy me!"

"Yes! There is such a pleasure in credulity. I sigh now over the
vanished illusions of my boyhood."

"I once believed in ghosts," replied Helen, "and even now, in solitude
and darkness, the memories of childhood come back to me so powerfully,
they are appalling. Miss Thusa might tell me a thousand stories now,
without inspiring belief, while those told me in childhood can never be
forgotten, or their impressions effaced."

"Yet you like Miss Thusa, and seem to remember her with affection."

"She was so kind to me that I could not help loving her--and she seemed
so lonely, with so few to love her, it seemed cruel to shut up the heart
against her."

"One may be incredulous without being cruel, I should think," said
Mittie, with asperity. She felt the reproach, and could not believe it
accidental. Poor Mittie! how much she suffered.

Helen, who was really desirous of seeing Miss Thusa, and did not wish
for the companionship of Clinton, stole away from the rest and took the
path she well remembered, through the woods. The excessive hilarity of
the morning had faded from her spirits. There was something
indescribable about Mittie that annoyed and pained her. The gleam of
kindness with which she had greeted her had all gone out, and left
dullness and darkness in its stead. She could not get near her heart. At
every avenue it seemed closed against her, and resisted the golden key
of affection as effectually as the wrench of violence.

"She must love me," thought Helen, pursuing her way towards Miss
Thusa's, and picking up here and there a yellow leaf that came
fluttering down at her feet. "I cannot live in coldness and estrangement
with one I ought to love so dearly. It must be some fault