don't know,” said the other; “I presume he will. But where can he have gone to-day?”
“He acted very queerly,” said the girl; and then suddenly a delighted smile lit up her face. “Oh, Daddy,” she added, “do you know, I think Arthur is in love!”
“In love!” gasped Mr. Davis.
“Yes, in love!”
“Pray, with whom?”
“I'm sure I can't imagine,” said Helen gravely; “but he seemed so abstracted, and he seemed to have something to tell me. And then he ran away!”
“That is very strange indeed,” remarked the other. “I shall have to speak to him about it.”
“If he doesn't come back soon, I'll go to look for him,” said the girl; “I'm not going to let the water nixies run off with my Arthur; there are such things in that stream, because the song I was singing about it says so.” And then she chanted as merrily as ever:
“Why speak I of a murmur?
No murmur can it be;
The Nixies they are singing
'Neath the wave their melody!”
“I will tell you what,” said Mr. Davis, rising from his chair as he realized that the sermon had entirely vanished for the present. “You may go part of the way with me, and we'll stop in to see the Vails.”
“The Vails!” gasped Helen. (Mr. Vail was the village dairyman, whose farm lay on the outskirts of the town; the village dairyman's family was not one that Helen cared to visit.)
“My love,” said Mr. Davis, “poor Mrs. Vail has been very ill, and she has three little children, you know. You told me that you liked to bring joy wherever you could.”
“Yes, but, Daddy,” protested Helen, “those children are dirty! Ugh! I saw them as I came by.”
“My love,” answered the other, “they are God's children none the less; and we cannot always help such things.”
“But we can, Daddy; there is plenty of water in the world.”
“Yes, of course; but when the mother is ill, and the father in trouble! For poor Mr. Vail has had no end of misfortune; he has no resource but the little dairy, and three of his cows have been ill this spring.”
And Helen's incorrigible mirth lighted up her face again. “Oh!” she cried. “Is that it! I saw him struggling away at the pump as I came by; but I had no idea it was anything so serious!”
Mr. Davis looked grieved; Helen, when her first burst of glee had passed, noticed it and changed her mood. She put her arms around her father's neck and pressed her cheek against his.
“Daddy, dear,” she said coaxingly, “haven't I done charity enough for one day? You will surfeit me at the start, and then I'll be just as little fond of it as I was before. When I must let dirty children climb all over me, I can dress for the occasion.”
“My dear,” pleaded Mr. Davis, “Godliness is placed before Cleanliness.”
“Yes,” admitted Helen, “and of course it is right for you to inculcate the greater virtue; but I'm only a girl, and you mustn't expect sublimity from me. You don't want to turn me into a president of sewing societies, like that dreadful Mrs. Dale!”
“Helen,” protested the other, helplessly, “I wish you would not always refer to Mrs. Dale with that adjective; she is the best helper I have.”
“Yes, Daddy,” said Helen, with the utmost solemnity; “when I have a dreadful eagle nose like hers, perhaps I can preside over meetings too. But I can't now.”
“I do not want you to, my love; but—”
“And if I have to cling by the weaker virtue of cleanliness just for a little while, Daddy, you must not mind. I'll visit all your clean parishioners for you—parishioners like Aunt Polly!”
And before Mr. Davis could make another remark, the girl had skipped into the other room to the piano; as her father went slowly out the door, the echoes of the old house were laughing with the happy melody of Purcell's—
Nymphs and shepherds, come a-way, come a-way,
Nymphs and shepherds, come a-way, come a-way, Come,
come, come, come a-way!
CHAPTER III
“For you alone I strive to sing,
Oh, tell me how to woo!”
When Helen was left alone, she seated herself before her old music stand which had been brought down to welcome her, and proceeded to glance over and arrange the pieces she had learned and loved in her young girlhood. Most of them made her smile, and when she reflected upon how difficult she used to think them, she realized that now that it was over she was glad for the German regime. Helen had accounted herself an accomplished pianist when she went away, but she had met with new standards and learned to think humbly of herself in the great home of music. She possessed a genuine fondness for the art, however, and had devoted most of her three years to it, so that she came home rejoicing in the possession of a technic that was quite a mastership compared with any that she was likely to meet.
Helen's thoughts did not dwell upon that very long at present, however; she found herself thinking again about Arthur, and the unexpected ending of her walk with him.
“I had no idea he felt that way toward me,” she mused, resting her chin in her hand; “what in the world am I going to do? Men are certainly most inconvenient creatures; I thought I was doing everything in the world to make him happy!”
Helen turned to the music once more, but the memory of the figure she had left sunken helplessly upon the forest seat stayed in her mind. “I do wonder if that can be why he did not wait for me,” she thought, shuddering—“if he was too wretched to see me again; what CAN I do?” She got up and began walking restlessly up and down the room for a few minutes.
“Perhaps I ought to go and look for him,” she mused; “it was an hour or two ago that I left him there;” and Helen, after thinking the matter over, had half turned to leave, when she heard a step outside and saw the door open quickly. Even before she saw him she knew who it was, for only Arthur would have entered without ringing the bell. After having pictured him overcome by despair, it was rather a blow to her pride to see him, for he entered flushed, and seemingly elated.
“Well, sir, you've treated me nicely!” she exclaimed, showing her vexation in spite of herself.
“You will forgive me,” said Arthur, smiling.
“Don't be too sure of it,” Helen said; “I looked for you everywhere, and I am quite angry.”
