"That day will never come," said Helen, blushing. "My fears are hydras--as fast as one is destroyed another is born. Shadows will always be peopled with phantoms, and darkness is to me the shadow of the grave." "I am sorry to hear you say so, Helen," said the young doctor, taking her hand, and leading her along the shadowy path, "and yet you feel safe with me. You fear not when I am with you." "Oh, no!" exclaimed Helen, involuntarily drawing nearer to him--"I never fear in your presence. Midnight would seem noonday, and all phantoms flee away." "And yet, Helen," he cried, "you have a friend always near, stronger to protect than legions of angels can be. Do you realize this truth?" "I trust, I believe I do," answered Helen, looking upward into the dome of darkening blue that seemed resting upon the tall, dark pillars of the woods. "I sometimes think if I were really exposed to a great danger, I could brave it without shrinking--or if danger impended over one I loved, I should forget all selfish apprehensions. Try not to judge me too severely--and I will do my best to correct the faults of my childhood." They walked on in silence a few moments, for there was something hushing in the soft murmurs of the branches, something like the distant roaring of the ocean surge. "I must take Alice home to-morrow," said he, at length; "her mother longs to behold her. I wish you were going with her. I fear you will not be happy here." "I cannot leave my father," said Helen, sadly, "and if I can only keep out of the way of other people's happiness, I will try to be content." "May I speak to you freely, Helen, as I did several years ago? May I counsel you as a friend--guide you as a brother still?" "It is all that I wished--more than I dared to ask. I only fear that I shall give you too much trouble." There was a gray, old rock by the way-side, that looked exactly as if it belonged to Miss Thusa's establishment. Arthur Hazleton seated Helen there, and threw himself on the moss at her feet. "I am going away to-morrow," said he, "and I feel as if I had much to say. I leave you exposed to temptation; and to put you on your guard, I must say perhaps what you will think unauthorized. You know so little of the world--are so guileless and unsuspecting--I cannot bear to alarm your simplicity; and yet, Helen, you cannot always remain a child." "Oh, I wish I could," she exclaimed; "I cannot bear the thought of being otherwise. As long as I am a child, I shall be caressed, cherished, and forgiven for all my faults. I never shall be able to act on my own responsibility--never."