Leonard bowed his head in deep thought, and this time the thought was not gloomy. Then out from that awful life there glowed another passage, which before he had not heeded duly, but regarded rather as one of the darkest mysteries in the fate of Chatterton. At the very time the despairing poet had locked himself up in his garret, to dismiss his soul from its earthly ordeal, his genius had just found its way into the light of renown. Good and learned and powerful men were preparing to serve and save him. Another year,--nay, perchance, another month--and he might have stood acknowledged and sublime in the foremost front of his age. "Oh Helen!" cried Leonard, raising his brows from which the cloud had passed,--"Why, indeed, did you leave me?" Helen started in her turn as he repeated this regret, and in her turn grew thoughtful. At length she asked him if he had written for the box which had belonged to her father, and been left at the inn. And Leonard, though a little chafed at what he thought a childish interruption to themes of graver interest, owned with self-reproach that he had forgotten to do so. Should he not write now to order the box to be sent to her at Miss Starke's. "No; let it be sent to you. Take care of it. I should like to know that something of mine is with you; and perhaps I may not stay here long." "Not stay here? That you must, my dear Helen--at least as long as Miss Starke will keep you, and is kind. By-and-by, (added Leonard, with something of his former sanguine tone) I may yet make my way, and we shall have our cottage to ourselves. But--Oh Helen!--I forgot--you wounded me; you left your money with me. I only found it in my drawers the other day. Fie!--I have brought it back." "It was not mine--it is yours. We were to share together--you paid all; and how can I want it here, too?" But Leonard was obstinate; and as Helen mournfully received back all that of fortune her father had bequeathed to her, a tall female figure stood at the entrance of the harbor, and said, that scattered all sentiment to the winds--"Young man, it is time to go." CHAPTER XXV. "Already!" said Helen, with faltering accents, as she crept to Miss Starke's side, while Leonard rose and bowed. "I am very grateful to you, Madam," said he, with the grace that comes from all refinement of idea, "for allowing me to see Miss Helen. Do not let me abuse your kindness." Miss Starke seemed struck with his look and manner, and made a stiff half curtsey. A form more rigid than Miss Starke's it was hard to conceive. She was like the grim white woman in the nursery ballads. Yet, apparently, there was a good nature in allowing the stranger to enter her trim garden, and providing for him and her little charge those fruit and cakes which belied her aspect. "May I go with him to the gate?" whispered Helen, as Leonard had already passed up the path.