“Ah!” said Leopold--then added after a moment--“I was hoping he might be an old man, with a grey head, like the brahmin who used to teach me Sanscrit.--I wish I had treated him better, poor old fellow! and learned a little more.” “What does it matter about Sanscrit? Why should you make troubles of trifles?” said Helen, whose trials had at last begun to undermine her temper. “It was not of the Sanscrit, but the moonshee I was thinking,” answered Leopold mildly. “You darling!” cried Helen, already repentant. But with the revulsion she felt that this state of things could not long continue--she must either lose her senses, or turn into something hateful to herself: the strain was more than she could bear. She MUST speak to somebody, and she would try whether she could not approach the subject with Mr. Wingfold. But how was she to see him? It would be awkward to call upon him at his lodgings, and she must see him absolutely alone to dare a whisper of what was on her mind. As she thus reflected, the thought of what people would say, were it remarked that she contrived to meet the curate, brought a shadow of scorn upon her face. Leopold saw the expression, and, sensitive as an ailing woman, said, “Helen, what HAVE I done to make you look like that?” “How did I look, my Poldie?” she asked, turning on him eyes like brimming wells of love and tenderness. “Let me see,” answered Leopold; and after a moment’s thought replied, “As Milton’s Satan might have looked if Mammon had counselled him to make off with the crown-jewels instead of declaring war.” “Ah, Poldie!” cried Helen, delighted at the stray glance of sunshine, and kissing him as she spoke, “you must really be better! I’ll tell you what!” she exclaimed joyfully, as a new thought struck her: “As soon as you are able, we will set out for New York--to pay Uncle Tom a visit of course! but we shall never be seen or heard of again. At New York we will change our names, cross to San Francisco, and from there sail for the Sandwich Islands. Perhaps we may be able to find a little one to buy, just big enough for us two; and you shall marry a nice native----” Her forced gaiety gave way. She burst out weeping afresh, and throwing her arms round him, sobbed-- “Poldie, Poldie! you can pray: cry to God to help us somehow or other; and if there be no God to hear us, then let us die together. There are easy ways of it, Poldie.” “Thank you! thank you, sister dear!” he answered, pressing her to his bosom: “that is the first word of real comfort you have spoken to me. I shall not be afraid if you go with me.”