Seldom had Helen experienced so strong an aversion for any one as that excited in her by the words, the manner, and soon the very appearance of Mrs. Cumberbatch. In the latter’s presence she suffered from continual irritation. And this was all the worse, seeing that Mrs. Cumberbatch seemed to take the utmost interest in her nephew’s ward, and seldom allowed her to remain alone when in the house. On Sunday alone was there any rest from her persecution. Happily she had discovered a congregation of the new branch of the Semi–United Presbyterio–Episcopal Church, and the fact that it met at the extremity of Mile-end Road, was to her no obstacle whatever. Twice each Sunday did she attend the service there, going and returning by omnibus each time. Helen never knew her to manifest the slightest sign of fatigue. She was always the same close-lipped, smiling little woman, under every circumstance.

Under the pretence of requesting her to read to him, Mr. Gresham continued to engross much of his ward’s leisure. Indeed, so strong was his infatuation becoming, that he could hardly bear her to be out of his sight. In the afternoons he always waited for her return home with childish impatience, and called her into his presence on some trivial pretext almost as soon as she had entered the house. His jealousy of a hundred imaginary rivals well-nigh drove him to madness, he plotted and schemed for hours how to put an end to her long daily absences. For all this he had not the courage openly to break his secret to her, and know his fate. Indeed, he felt that he already knew his fate only too well. He saw that Helen still behaved to him with the most perfect frankness, without a trace of embarrassment, in every respect treating him like a friend — and no more. At times he was driven into paroxysms of rage when he thought of the mean acts he had committed, the perpetual torture from which he suffered, all in consequence of this ill-advised but involuntary passion. He mocked at himself, he attacked himself with the fiercest sarcasms and ironies; a thousand times he went to bed at night saying that in the morning he would rise calm and indifferent to the whole race of womankind, as he had been but a few months ago. And yet the morning found the invincible worm eating still deeper into his heart. He was beginning to despise himself as a coward, a creature devoid alike of honour and of courage.

He asked himself whether there was any real obstacle in the way of his offering his hand to Helen, and being either accepted or refused as the case might be. He could see none. He knew cases of men older than himself who had married wards of their own, under far less creditable circumstances. At least no one could think that he was actuated by a mercenary spirit; his own independent position forbade that. What, then, stood in his way? He knew very well that it was that stiff-necked pride, that empty vanity which had been the guiding spirit of his life. Could he, who had scoffed at all the passions, the sentiments, the principles which ordinarily rule the existence of men, who had trained himself into an affected cynicism which all his friends imagined to be real, could he now confess himself a convert to the gentle teaching of love, humble himself to entreat the favour of a girl? The thought was intolerable to him.

Helen’s portrait was proceeding very slowly. Mr. Gresham lingered over it purposely; partly because he had an actual pleasure in the work, partly because it afforded him a good opportunity of frequently enjoying his ward’s society; partly, again, because he felt that the completion of the picture would be the most appropriate occasion for opening his heart; and he dreaded the approach of the time. Soon it had been in hand nearly six weeks, and was all but finished. One morning he had requested Helen to sit, and had lingered for a couple of hours before the canvas, now and then adding a touch, but for the most part only pretending to paint, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the girl’s face. At last he laid down his pallet, and threw himself with a careless air into a seat by Helen’s side.

“And how goes the missionary work in the Oriental regions?” he asked, with a forced assumption of his wonted sceptical tone and look.

“As well as I could hope, I think,” replied Helen.

“Then let us have statistics. How many have you converted to the doctrine of soap and water, say during the last week?”

“I wish the process of conversion were capable of being represented by statistics,” said Helen. “We can only venture to look for decided results at the end of a comparatively long period. Ask me when I have been at work a year, Mr. Gresham, and I hope to be able to give you something tangible.”

“A year! And you mean to say that your whim will last so long? Why, I was calculating that our Christmas festivities, at the latest, would celebrate its burial.”

“You credit me with very little stability of character, Mr. Gresham.”

“On the contrary, in giving you till Christmas I conceived I was crediting you with a most astonishing stability.”

“I have already said that this will be the work of my life, and I say so in seriousness.”

“Your life? And when you are married do you suppose your husband will allow you to spend your days in slums and ragged schools?”

“I think there is little prospect of my ever marrying,” replied Helen, with a quiet smile.

“Indeed? Not Mr. Heatherley? You would make an admirable parson’s wife, Helen.”

Helen looked curiously at him as he spoke thus, and he met her gaze with one which conveyed much more earnestness than his words.

“Mr. Heatherley and I are, I hope, very good friends,” she replied, “but the idea of our ever becoming more to each other than that is one for which you must yourself take credit, Mr. Gresham.”

“But how and where will you live? I have been very seriously thinking of late of the Dorsetshire farm. Suppose I sell this house and go to live in the country; what will become of you then, Helen?”

“I shall take a lodging somewhere near to the scene of my occupation,” replied the girl, calmly. “By so doing I should save much time and expense.”

“Possibly you would like to do that at once?”

“I should only do so if I had no near friends in London. At present I enjoy living in your house, Mr. Gresham. I should lose your society with regret.”

“And yet there is not much similarity between us, Helen, is there?”

“We often agree in our literary tastes.”

“So we do. But then you take the world so terribly au sérieux; I look upon it as a farce, and amuse myself with the spectacle.”

“That I am sorry for,” said Helen.

There was silence for a while.

“Do you ever think about my character, Helen?” asked the artist then.

“I have naturally sometimes thought of it, Mr. Gresham,” returned his ward, with some little hesitation. “Not to have done so would argue want of friendship.”

“And what were your conclusions with regard to me? Is it indiscreet to ask such a question?”

“Rather indiscreet, perhaps.”

“You decline to make any comments?”

“Would any useful end be served if I consented?”

“Possibly by regarding my image in your clear mind, I might learn to know myself better than I now do.”

“In that case I will venture to mention one thought which has sometimes occurred to me. It is my belief, Mr. Gresham, that people are not so sincere with each other as they might, with great advantage, be. As you have invited me to speak, you will not be offended at what I say?”

“In no case.”

“I have sometimes thought, then,” said the girl, looking into her guardian’s face with frank simplicity, “that it is a pity you do not try to divest your words and your manner of a certain unreality, insincerity — what shall I call it? — which they possess. I sometimes fancy that you are not naturally so sceptical regarding the seriousness of life as you would pretend to be. I have noticed indications of this more particularly during the last few weeks.”

Mr. Gresham smiled. He seemed to experience a real pleasure in hearing these words.

“And why is it a pity that I am what I am?” he asked. “Should I be more amiable do you think — should I seem more agreeable, say to you, if I were otherwise?”

“I am sure you would.”

“But what would you have me do? How can I evince sincerity? Shall I turn Ranter, and harangue a crowd next evening from the top of the nearest lamp-post?”

“I fear you are incorrigible, Mr. Gresham,” said Helen, shaking her head and smiling.

“But, in sober earnest, what shall I do? I am willing — I am willing to be savagely serious, indeed I am. There shall be a proof of it.”

He took out his pocket-book, and released from it a ten-pound bank-note.

“There,” he continued, “take this, Helen, and spend it for me upon your unspeakable protégés.”

Helen shook her head.

“But why not?” he pursued. “Take it, I beg of you. Shall I go down on my knees? Take it, Helen, and buy somebody a ton of soap with it — the very best brown Windsor!”

“You do not mean what you say, Mr. Gresham. You would regret it the moment the money had left your hands.”

“Upon my word, no! I am in terrific earnest. Won’t you take me at my word?”

“It is always so difficult for me to understand whether you mean what you say.”

“But in this case I do. Take the ten-pound note, Helen. I mean it. Take it, and when it is spent, ask me for another. I wish to be serious. I wish to be amiable. I wish to please you, Helen.”

“Indeed you do please me, Mr. Gresham, if you really mean this. I will take you literally.” As she spoke she put the note in her purse. “You shall have an exact account of how this money has been spent. I think I have already a purpose for it in my mind. It is very good of you to make me your agent.”

Mr. Gresham suddenly took one of her hands in both his own, and looked full into her face. Just as he was opening his lips to speak, the door creaked, and Mrs. Cumberbatch entered. Mr. Gresham rose with a savage look, which he vainly endeavoured to conceal, and walked to his easel.

“The picture near completion — h’m?” asked the intruder, turning first to Helen, who sat perfectly composed, the............