"Cruel! Ah, it _has_ been so to you; but _now_!--now I will take care of you!" he smiled triumphantly; and his smile was beautiful both in its pride and its kindness. It is astonishing how Leonard had altered since he had left his uncle's. He was both younger and older; for the sense of genius, when it snaps its shackles, makes us both older and wiser as to the world it soars to--younger and blinder as to the world it springs from. "And it is not a very handsome city either, you say?" "Very ugly, indeed," said Helen, with some fervor; "at least all I have seen of it." "But there must be parts that are prettier than others? You say there are parks; why should not we lodge near them, and look upon the green trees?" "That would be nice," said Helen, almost joyously; "but--" and here the head was shaken--"there are no lodgings for us except in courts and alleys." "Why?" "Why?" echoed Helen, with a smile, and she held up the purse. "Pooh! always that horrid purse; as if, too, we were not going to fill it. Did I not tell you the story of Fortunio? Well, at all events, we will go first to the neighborhood where you last lived, and learn there all we can; and then the day after to-morrow, I will see this Dr. Morgan, and find out the Lord--" The tears started to Helen's soft eyes. "You want to get rid of me soon, brother." "I! ah, I feel so happy to have you with me, it seems to me as if I had pined for you all my life, and you had come at last; for I never had brother, nor sister, nor any one to love, that was not older than myself, except--" "Except the young lady you told me of," said Helen, turning away her face; for children are very jealous. "Yes, I loved her, love her still. But that was different," said Leonard, with a heightened color. "I could never have talked to her as to you; to you I open my whole heart; you are my little Muse, Helen. I confess to you my wild whims and fancies as frankly as if I were writing poetry." As he said this, a step was heard, and a shadow fell over the stream. A belated angler appeared on the margin, drawing his line impatiently across the water, as if to worry some dozing fish into a bite before it finally settled itself for the night. Absorbed in his occupation, the angler did not observe the young persons on the sward under the tree, and he halted there, close upon them. "Curse that perch!" said he aloud. "Take care, sir," cried Leonard; for the man in stepping back, nearly trod upon Helen. The angler turned. "What's the matter? Hist! you have frightened my perch. Keep still, can't you?" Helen drew herself out of the way, and Leonard remained motionless. He remembered Jackeymo, and felt a sympathy for the angler.