Within a small room, the single window of which opened on a fanciful and fairy-like garden, that has been before described, sate a young man alone. He had been writing: the ink was not dry on his manuscript, but his thoughts had been suddenly interrupted from his work, and his eyes, now lifted from the letter which had occasioned that interruption, sparkled with delight. “He will come,” exclaimed the young man; “come here—to the home which I owe to him. I have not been unworthy of his friendship. And she”—his breast heaved, but the joy faded from his face. “Oh, strange, strange, that I feel sad at the thought to see her again. See _her_—Ah no!—my own comforting Helen—my own Child-angel! _Her_ I can never see again! The grown woman—that is not my Helen. And yet—and yet,” he resumed, after a pause, “if ever she read the pages, in which thought flowed and trembled under her distant starry light—if ever she see how her image has rested with me, and feel that, while others believe that I invent, I have but remembered—will she not, for a moment, be my own Helen again! Again, in heart and in fancy, stand by my side on the desolate bridge—hand in hand—orphans both, as we stood in the days so sorrowful, yet, as I recall them, so sweet.—Helen in England, it is a dream!” He rose, half consciously, and went to the window. The fountain played merrily before his eyes, and the birds in the aviary caroled loud to his ear. “And in this house,” he murmured, “I saw her last! And there, where the fountain now throws its stream on high—there her benefactor and mine told me that I was to lose _her_, and that I might win—fame. Alas!” At this time, a woman, whose dress was somewhat above her mien and air, which, though not without a certain respectability, were very homey, entered the room; and, seeing the young man standing thus thoughtful by the window, paused. She was used to his habits; and since his success in life, had learned to respect them. So she did not disturb his reverie, but began softly to arrange the room—dusting, with the corner of her apron, the various articles of furniture, putting a stray chair or two in its right place, but not touching a single paper. Virtuous woman, and rare as virtuous! The young man turned at last, with a deep, yet not altogether painful sigh— “My dear mother, good-day to you. Ah, you do well to make the room look its best. Happy news! I expect a visitor!” “Dear me, Leonard, will he want? lunch—or what?” “Nay, I think not, mother. It is he to whom we owe all—‘_Hæc otia fecit_.’ Pardon my Latin; it is Lord L’Estrange.” The face of Mrs. Fairfield (the reader has long since divined the name) changed instantly, and betrayed a nervous twitch of all the muscles, which gave her a family likeness to old Mrs. Avenel. “Do not be alarmed, mother. He is the kindest—” “Don’t talk so; I can’t bear it!” cried Mrs. Fairfield.