'You frighten me!' she cried, as my words forced conviction upon her; and overcome by the news or by my manner of telling it, she fainted. If she had been fair before, how much fairer was she now as she lay before me? Her childlike ways, her beauty, her helplessness, made a slave of me. I feared at first that I had killed her, and I reproached myself bitterly. Timidly I bathed her forehead with water, and when she opened her eyes, and looked at me in innocent wonder, a feeling that might have been heaven-born--to use a phrase--so fraught was it with thankful happiness, took possession of me. I explained to her what had occurred, and she lowered her veil to hide her tears. As I witnessed her grief, it seemed to me as if I were the cause of her father's misfortunes. 'And there is absolutely no hope for us?' she sobbed. 'There is only the hope,' I replied, 'as I explained to your father, that some friend will come forward and serve him in this strait.' 'Papa has no such friend that I know of,' she said. I thought of the young man whom I had seen at Mr. Glaive's house on the previous night, and I mentioned him. 'Ralph,' she said, 'my cousin. No, he is very poor.' She turned to me. 'I had a fancy last night that you were our friend.' I answered in a constrained voice: 'I never saw Mr. Glaive until a fortnight ago; he called upon me only in the way of business.' 'Forgive me,' she murmured; 'I was wrong to come, perhaps--but I did not know.' 'If I could serve you--' I said, and paused. The words came to my lips and were uttered almost without the exercise of my will; not that I repented of them. She threw up her veil, and moved towards me. '_If!_' she echoed. 'You could if you pleased, could you not? _You_ are rich?' 'I am not a poor man,' I said. 'Help us,' she pleaded, holding out her hands to me. 'Be my friend.'