“Why don't they take her away from the school, if she is in such a strange, excitable state?” said Mr. Bernard.
“I believe they are afraid of her,” Helen answered. “It is just one of those cases that are ten thousand thousand times worse than insanity. I don't think from what I hear, that her father has ever given up hoping that she will outgrow her peculiarities. Oh, these peculiar children for whom parents go on hoping every morning and despairing every night! If I could tell you half that mothers have told me, you would feel that the worst of all diseases of the moral sense and the will are those which all the Bedlams turn away from their doors as not being cases of insanity!”
“Do you think her father has treated her judiciously?” said Mr. Bernard.
“I think,” said Helen, with a little hesitation, which Mr. Bernard did not happen to notice,—“I think he has been very kind and indulgent, and I do not know that he could have treated her otherwise with a better chance of success.”
“He must of course be fond of her,” Mr. Bernard said; “there is nothing else in the world for him to love.”
Helen dropped a book she held in her hand, and, stooping to pick it up, the blood rushed into her cheeks.
“It is getting late,” she said; “you must not stay any longer in this close schoolroom. Pray, go and get a little fresh air before dinner-time.”
CHAPTER XXVII. A SOUL IN DISTRESS.
The events told in the last two chapters had taken place toward the close of the week. On Saturday evening the Reverend Chauncy Fairweather received a note which was left at his door by an unknown person who departed without saying a word. Its words were these: “One who is in distress of mind requests the prayers of this congregation that God would be pleased to look in mercy upon the soul that he has afflicted.”