HELEN, (obeying the impulse at 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. Burley took three or four long strides through the room--he was greatly agitated. "I am a demon," he murmured. "I never saw it before--but it is true--I should be this boy's ruin." Tears stood in his eyes, he paused abruptly, made a clutch at his hat, and turned to the door. Helen stopped the way, and, taking him gently by the arm, said,--"Oh, sir, forgive me--I have pained you;" and looked up at him with a compassionate expression, that indeed made the child's sweet face as that of an angel. Burley bent down as if to kiss her, and then drew back--perhaps with a sentiment that his lips were not worthy to touch that innocent brow. "If I had had a sister--a child like you, little one," he muttered, "perhaps I too might have been saved in time. Now--" "Ah, now you may stay, sir; I don't fear you any more." "No, no; you would fear me again ere night-time, and I might not be always in the right mood to listen to a voice like yours, child. Your Leonard has a noble heart and rare gifts. He should rise yet, and he shall. I will not drag him into the mire. Good-bye--you will see me no more." He broke from Helen, cleared the stairs with a bound, and was out of the house. When Leonard returned he was surprised to hear his unwelcome guest was gone--but Helen did not venture to tell him of her interposition. She knew instinctively how such officiousness would mortify and offend the pride of man--but she never again spoke harshly of poor Burley. Leonard supposed that he should either see or hear of the humourist in the course of the day. Finding he did not, he went in search of him at his old haunts; but no trace. He inquired at the _Beehive_ if they knew there of his new address, but no tidings of Burley could be obtained. As he came home disappointed and anxious, for he felt uneasy as to the disappearance of his wild friend, Mrs Smedley met him at the door. "Please, sir, suit yourself with another lodging," said she. "I can have no such singings and shoutings going on at night in my house. And that poor little girl, too!--you should be ashamed of yourself." Leonard frowned, and passed by. CHAPTER XI.