lonely school-house--believed that she had received
some sudden shock inflicted by a phantom of her own imagination. Her
frantic opposition to being taken up stairs confirmed this belief, and
he insisted on his wife's conveying her to her own room and giving her
an anodyne. Clinton felt as if his presence must be intrusive, and left
the room--but he divined the cause of Helen's strange emotion. He heard
a quick, passionate tread overhead, and he well knew what the
lion-strength of Mittie's unchained passions must be.

Mrs. Gleason, too, had her suspicions of the truth, having seen Helen's
homeward flight, and heard the voice of Mittie soon afterwards in loud
and angry tones. She besought her husband to leave her to her care,
assuring him that all she needed was perfect quietude. For more than an
hour Mrs. Gleason sat by the side of Helen, holding her hands in one of
hers, while she bathed with the other her throbbing temples. Gradually
the deep, purple flush faded to a pale hue, and her eyes gently closed.
The step-mother thought she slept, and darkened the window--so that the
rays of the young moon could not glimmer through the casement. Mrs.
Gleason looked upon Helen with anguish, seeing before her so much misery
in consequence of her sister's jealous and irascible temper. She sighed
for the departure of Clinton, whose coming had roused Mittie to such
terrible life, and whose fascinations might be deadly to the peace of
Helen. She could see no remedy to the evils which every day might
increase--for she knew by long experience the indomitable nature of
Mittie's temper.

"Mother," said Helen, softly, opening her eyes, "I do not sleep, but I
rest, and it is so sweet--I feel as if I had been out in a terrible
storm--so shattered and so bruised within. Oh! mother, you cannot think
of the shameful accusations she has brought against me. It makes me
shudder to think of them. I shall never, never be happy again. They will
always be ringing in my ears--always blistering and burning me."

"You should not think her words of such consequence," said Mrs. Gleason,
soothingly; "nothing she can say can soil the purity of your nature, or
alienate the affections of your friends. She is a most unhappy girl,
doomed, I fear, to be the curse of this otherwise happy household."

"I cannot live so," cried Helen, clasping her hands entreatingly, "I
would rather die than live in such strife and shame. It makes me wicked
and passionate. I ca