It was not possible, however, for her to find a word that could seem to Helen unjust, so much was the girl already humbled.  It was only after her aunt had ceased to direct her taunts at her, and turned her spite upon Mr. Howard and his superior ideas, that it seemed to Helen that it was not helping her to hear any more; then she rose and said, very gently, “Aunt Polly, I am sorry that you feel so about me, and I wish that I could explain to you better what I am doing.  I know that what I did at first was all wrong, but that is no reason why I should leave it wrong forever.  I think now that I ought to go and talk to Mr. Harrison, who is waiting for me, and after that I want you to please send me home, because father will be there to-day, and I want to tell him about how dreadfully I have treated Arthur, and beg him to forgive me.”

Then, without waiting for any reply, the girl left the room and went slowly down the steps.  The sorrow that possessed her lay so deep upon her heart that everything else seemed trivial in comparison, and she had put aside and forgotten the whole scene with her aunt before she had reached the parlor where Mr. Harrison was waiting; she did not stop to compose herself or to think what to say, but went quickly into the room.

Mr. Harrison, who was standing by the window, turned when he heard her; she answered his greeting kindly, and then sat down and remained very still for a moment or two, gazing at her hands in her lap.  At last she raised her eyes to him, and asked:  “Mr. Harrison, did you receive the letter I wrote you?”

“Yes,” the other answered quickly, “I did.  I cannot tell you how much pain it caused me.  And, Helen—­or must I call you Miss Davis?”

“You may call me Helen,” said the girl simply.  “I was very sorry to cause you pain,” she added, “but there was nothing else that I could do.”

“At least,” the other responded, “I hope that you will not refuse to explain to me why this step is necessary?”

“No, Mr. Harrison,” said Helen, “it is right that I should tell you all, no matter how hard it is to me to do it.  It is all because of a great wrong that I have done; I know that when I have told you, you will think very badly of me indeed, but I have no right to do anything except to speak the truth.”

She said that in a very low voice, not allowing her eyes to drop, and wearing upon her face the look of sadness which seemed now to belong to it always.  Mr. Harrison gazed at her anxiously, and said:  “You seem to have been ill, Helen.”

“I have been very unhappy, Mr. Harrison,” she answered, “and I do not believe I can ever be otherwise again.  Did you not notice that I was unhappy?”

“I never thought of it until yesterday,” the other replied.