Helen, (coming slowly up to Mr. Burley, and still gazing earnestly into his face.)—"Ah, sir, Leonard says you have a kind heart, and that you have served him—he cannot ask you to leave the house; and so I, who have never served him, am to go hence and live alone."
Burley, (moved.)—"You go, my little lady?—and why? Can we not all live together?"
Helen.—"No sir. I left every thing to come to Leonard, for we had met first at my father's grave. But you rob me of him, and I have no other friend on earth."
Burley, (discomposed.)—"Explain, yourself. Why must you leave him because I come?"
Helen looks at Mr. Burley again, long and wistfully, but makes no answer.
Burley, (with a gulp.)—"Is it because he thinks I am not fit company for you?"
Helen bowed her head.
Burley winced, and after a moment's pause said,—"He is right."
Helen, (obeying the impulse of her heart, springs forward and takes Burley's hand.)—"Ah, sir," she cried, "before he knew you he was so different—then he was cheerful—then, even when his first disappointment came, I grieved and wept; but I felt he would conquer still—for his heart was so good and pure. Oh, sir, don't think I reproach you; but what is to become of him if—if—No, it is not for myself I speak. I know that if I was here, that if he had me to care for, he would come home early and—work patiently—and—and—that I might save him. But now when I am gone, and you with him—you to whom he is grateful, you whom he would follow against his own conscience, (you must see that, sir,)—what is to become of him?"
Helen's voice died in sobs.