A faint dolorous wonder had crossed the mind of Helen. She would not leave him, nothing would make her leave him, lonely as he was. But that momentary pause, and the substitution of I for we, touched his daughter’s heart. She put her hand again softly on his arm. “Papa, we could not go away by night, all this long, dreadful way--and Janey. If we were to go early, early in the morning, would that not do? It is not so cold now, and the diligence goes so early. That would be best, not to attract any attention; or if we could leave her with Margot till we got settled----” “Leave--my child!--do you want me to leave my child?” he cried, as if she had suggested something cruel--“till we get settled?” and he laughed. “The only use of that would be to give them a clue to trace us by. We could not live without news of her, and letters are destruction. Do you think we could have been quiet here so long, so quiet, if there had been letters coming after us? No; we must go altogether when we go. But suppose that I were to keep out of the way,” he said in a half entreating tone; “suppose that I kept my room; suppose--I don’t know what is the matter with me--I have lost my courage. This man cannot stay very long with the Vieux-bois, Helen. Don’t you think if I were to shut myself up, to see no one? You could say I was ill----” “He is going to marry Cécile; they will talk of us, they will describe you, and there will be Mr Ashton, who knows us. It might be right--I mean not very wrong, for me; but he, why should he tell lies for us?” said Helen, mournfully. Her father recovered himself as by a miracle. He sat up in his chair, and his nervous trembling ceased. He even laughed. “I will manage Charley Ashton,” he said.