To this Mr. Thorburn replied, modestly, that his own knowledge of the Oriental languages was increasing day by day; that he had been fortunate enough to fall in with a learned, though somewhat shabby, pundit among the frequenters of the Imperial Library; and that he had induced this person to work with him for an hour or two every evening on very reasonable terms. “I cannot tell you what pleasure it has been to me to conquer the difficulties of these languages,” he wrote to his kind employer. And, indeed, to this friendless young man every grammatical triumph had been sweet, every tedious struggle with the obscurities of Devanagari or Sanscrit a labour of love. Riches or rank he had none to lay at the feet of the fair girl he loved; but by such dryasdust studies as these he could testify his devotion to that service which of all others was most dear to her affectionate heart. Weeks and months slipped by in these congenial labours. The notes for the great book, and Eustace Thorburn’s poem, grew side by side, and the young man had no leisure hour in which to nurse despondent thoughts. He was happier than he could have imagined it possible for him to be away from Greenlands. His work was delightful to him, because he was working for her. Yes; for her! His patient industry at the library was a tribute to her. His poem was written for her; since, if it won him reputation, he might dare to offer her the name so embellished. To Helen those autumn months seemed very dull. Her father’s secretary had made himself so completely a part of the household as to leave a blank not easily filled. Both father and daughter missed his bright face, his earnest, enthusiastic talk, his affectionate but unobtrusive devotion to their smallest interests. “We shall never have such a friend again, papa,” Helen said, naïvely; and the little speech, with the tone in which it was spoken, inclined M. de Bergerac to think that Harold Jerningham’s fears had not been groundless. “You miss him very much, Helen?” “More than I thought it possible I could miss any one but you?” “And yet he only came to us as a stranger, my dear, to perform a stipulated service. In France a young lady would scarcely care to express so much interest in her father’s secretary.” The girl’s innocent face grew crimson. What! had she said more than was becoming? Had she deserved a reproof from that dear father whom she lived only to please? After this she spoke no more of Eustace Thorburn; but her father’s mild reproof had awakened strange misgivings in her mind. Mr. Jerningham returned to Greenlands before Christmas, and spent that pleasant season at the cottage. A peace of mind which he had not known since boyhood possessed him in that calm abode, now that he was a free man, and Eustace Thorburn no longer exhibited before him the insolent happiness of youth.