He entered his attic noiselessly, and gazed upon Helen as she sat at her work, straining her eyes by the open window--with tender and deep compassion. She had not heard him enter, nor was she aware of his presence. Patient and still she sat, and the small fingers plied busily. He gazed, and saw that her cheek was pale and hollow, and the hands looked so thin! His heart was deeply touched, and at that moment he had not one memory of the baffled Poet, one thought that proclaimed the Egotist. He approached her gently, laid his hand on her shoulder--"Helen, put on your shawl and bonnet, and walk out--I have much to say." In a few moments she was ready, and they took their way to their favorite haunt upon the bridge. Pausing in one of the recesses or nooks, Leonard then began,--"Helen, we must part." "Part?--Oh, brother!" "Listen. All work that depends on mind is over for me; nothing remains but the labor of thews and sinews. I cannot go back to my village and say to all, 'My hopes were self-conceit and my intellect a delusion!' I cannot. Neither in this sordid city can I turn menial or porter. I might be born to that drudgery, but, my mind has, it may be unhappily, raised me above my birth. What, then, shall I do? I know not yet--serve as a soldier, or push my way to some wilderness afar, as an emigrant, perhaps. But whatever my choice, I must henceforth be alone; I have a home no more. But there is a home for you, Helen, a very humble one, (for you, too, so well born,) but very safe--the roof of--of--my peasant mother. She will love you for my sake, and--and----" Helen clung to him trembling, and sobbed out. "Any thing, any thing you will. But I can work; I can make money, Leonard. I do, indeed, make money--you do not know how much--but enough for us both till better times come to you. Do not let us part. "And I--a man, and born to labor, to be maintained by the work of an infant! No, Helen, do not so degrade me." She drew back as she looked on his flushed brow, bowed her head submissively, and murmured, "Pardon.'" "Ah," said Helen, after a pause; "if now we could but find my poor father's friend! I never so much cared for it before." "Yes, he would surely provide for you." "For _me_!" repeated Helen, in a tone of soft deep reproach, and she turned away her head to conceal her tears. "You are sure you would remember him, if we met him by chance?" "Oh, yes. He was so different from all we see in this terrible city, and his eyes were like yonder stars, so clear and so bright; yet the light seemed to come from afar off, as the light does in yours, when your thoughts are away from all things round you. And then, too, his dog whom he called Nero--I could not forget that." "But his dog may not be always with him." "But the bright clear eyes are! Ah, now you look up to heaven, and yours seems to dream like his."