"You must tell them how very ill she is, and how much she wishes me to remain with her. I think they will rejoice in my determination--rejoice that their poor, weak Helen has any energy of purpose, any will or power to be useful." "If you knew half your strength, half your power, Helen, I fear you would abuse it." A bright flame flashed up from the dark, serene depths of his eyes, and played on Helen's downcast face. She had seen its kindling, and now felt its warmth glowing in her cheek, and in her inmost heart. The large, old clock behind the door, struck the hour loudly, with its metallic hands. Arthur started and looked at his watch. "I did not think it was so late," he exclaimed, rising in haste. "I have a patient to visit, whom I promised to be with before this time. Do you know, Helen, we have been talking at least two hours by this fireside? Miss Thusa slumbers long." He went to the bedside, felt of the sleeper's pulse, listened attentively to her deep, irregular breathing, and then returned to Helen. "The opiate she has taken will probably keep her in a quiet state during the night--if not, you will recollect the directions I have given--and administer the proper remedies. Does not your courage fail, now I am about to leave you? Have you no misgivings now?" "I don't know. If I have, I will not express them. I am resolved on self-conquest, and your doubts of my courage only serve to strengthen my resolution." Arthur smiled--"I see you have a will of your own, Helen, under that gentle, child-like exterior, to which mine is forced to bend. But I will not suffer you to be beyond the reach of assistance. I will send a woman to sleep in the kitchen, whom you can call, if you require her aid. As I told you before, I do not apprehend any immediate danger, though I do not think she will rise from that bed again." Helen sighed, and tears gathered in her eyes. She accompanied Arthur to the door, that she might put the strong bar across it, which was Miss Thusa's substitute for a lock. "Perhaps I may call on my return," said he, "but it is very doubtful. Take care of yourself and keep warm. And if any unfavorable change takes place, send the woman for me. And now good-night--dear, good, brave Helen. May God bless, and angels watch over you." He pressed her hand, wrapped his cloak around him, and left Helen to her solitary vigils. She lifted the massy bar with trembling hands, and slid it into the iron hooks, fitted to receive it. Her hands trembled, but not from fear, but delight. Arthur had called her "dear and brave"--and long after she had reseated herself by the lonely hearth, the echo of his gentle, manly accents, seemed floating round the walls.