“And yet, Helen,” he cried, “you have a friend always near, stronger to protect than legions of angels can be. Do you realize this truth?”
“I trust, I believe I do,” answered Helen, looking upward into the dome of darkening blue that seemed resting upon the tall, dark pillars of the woods. “I sometimes think if I were really exposed to a great danger, I could brave it without shrinking—or if danger impended over one I loved, I should forget all selfish apprehensions. Try not to judge me too severely—and I will do my best to correct the faults of my childhood.”
They walked on in silence a few moments, for there was something hushing in the soft murmurs of the branches, something like the distant roaring of the ocean surge.
“I must take Alice home to-morrow,” said he, at length; “her mother longs to behold her. I wish you were going with her. I fear you will not be happy here.”
“I cannot leave my father,” said Helen, sadly, “and if I can only keep out of the way of other people’s happiness, I will try to be content.”
“May I speak to you freely, Helen, as I did several years ago? May I counsel you as a friend—guide you as a brother still?”
“It is all that I wished—more than I dared to ask. I only fear that I shall give you too much trouble.”
There was a gray, old rock by the way-side, that looked exactly as if it belonged to Miss Thusa’s establishment. Arthur Hazleton seated Helen there, and threw himself on the moss at her feet.
“I am going away to-morrow,” said he, “and I feel as if I had much to say. I leave you exposed to temptation; and to put you on your guard, I must say perhaps what you will think unauthorized. You know so little of the world—are so guileless and unsuspecting—I cannot bear to alarm your simplicity; and yet, Helen, you cannot always remain a child.”
“Oh, I wish I could,” she exclaimed; “I cannot bear the thought of being otherwise. As long as I am a child, I shall be caressed, cherished, and forgiven for all my faults. I never shall be able to act on my own responsibility—never.”