Leonard walked away.
Helen got close to the Doctor's ear, and whispered, "No, I cannot leave him now—he is so sad."
"Cott!" grunted the Doctor, "you two must have been reading Paul and Virginia. If I could but stay in England, I would try what ignatia would do in this case—interesting experiment! Listen to me—little girl; and go out of the room, you, sir."
Leonard, averting his face, obeyed. Helen made an involuntary step after him—the Doctor detained and drew her on his knee.
"What is your Christian name?—I forget."
"Helen."
"Helen, listen. In a year or two you will be a young woman, and it would be very wrong then to live alone with that young man. Meanwhile, you have no right to cripple all his energies. He must not have you leaning on his right arm—you would weigh it down. I am going away, and when I am gone there will be no one to help you, if you reject the friend I offer you. Do as I tell you, for a little girl so peculiarly susceptible (a thorough pulsatilla constitution) cannot be obstinate and egotistical."
"Let me see him cared for and happy, sir," said she firmly, "and I will go where you wish."
"He shall be so; and to-morrow, while he is out, I will come and fetch you. Nothing so painful as leave-taking—shakes the nervous system, and is a mere waste of the animal economy."
Helen sobbed aloud; then, writhing from the Doctor, she exclaimed, "But he may know where I am? We may see each other sometimes? Ah, sir, it was at my father's grave that we first met, and I think Heaven sent him to me. Do not part us for ever."