"I am not--I am not," said the man; "there, give us your hand upon it. Stay here for an hour, and then go where you like."
Thus saying, he shook her hand heartily, and was turning to depart, but Helen stopped him, saying, timidly, "But am I safe here?"
"Perfectly," replied the man--"perfectly! Why bless your little heart, there's nobody in the house but yourself."
"But if the people to whom it belongs should come?" said Helen, "they may think--"
"Well, tell them how you were brought here," said the man; "in an hour you may say anything you please;" and he added, "we shall be far on the road into Scotland by that time, so don't forget your word, and good bye!"
Thus speaking, he quitted the room, and Helen stood watching the light, as it burnt slowly down in the candlestick.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
In an hour after the period at which we closed the last chapter, Helen Barham stood before a house, bearing the name of the Tontine Inn, in the town of Sheffield. It was now broad daylight, and there were a many artisans and people of the lower classes going about the streets on their various employments; but yet very few of the houses and shops that she had passed were open, it being barely half-past five o'clock in the morning. About the inn itself there was no appearance of wakefulness, and the coach-office was not to be seen.
Poor Helen Barham's heart sunk as she gazed up at the closed shutters and blank face of the tall house. She knew not where to go, or what to do; and had she recollected that her appearance at that moment was certainly somewhat wild and strange--her hair dishevelled, her bonnet scarcely tied, without shawl or handkerchief, or gloves--she might have felt still more abashed and apprehensive than she did.
After pausing for several minutes, Helen wandered some way on, and then came back again, when, to her great satisfaction, she saw one of the drudging housemaids of the establishment sweeping out the passage. Helen approached her timidly, and asked which was the coach-office?