Suddenly, however, it occurred to her that the curate had had no knowledge of the facts of the case, and had therefore been compelled to talk at random. It was impossible he should suspect the crime of which her brother had been guilty, and therefore could not know the frightful consequences of such a confession as he had counselled. Had she not better then tell him all, and so gather from him some right and reasonable advice for the soothing of the agonies of her poor broken-winged angel? But alas! what security had she that a man capable of such priestly seveirity and heartlessness--her terrors made her thus inconsequent--would not himself betray the all but innocent sufferer to the vengeance of justice so called? No; she would venture no farther. Sooner would she go to George Bascombe--from whom she not only could look for no spiritual comfort, but whose theories were so cruel against culprits of all sorts! Alas, alas! she was alone! absolutely alone in the great waste, death-eyed universe!--But for a man to talk so of the tenderness of Jesus Christ, and then serve her as the curate had done--it was indeed shameless! HE would never have treated a poor wretched woman like that!--And as she said thus to herself, again the words sounded in the ear of her heart: ‘COME UNTO ME, ALL YE THAT LABOUR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.’ Whence came the voice? From her memory, or from that inner chamber of the spirit which the one spirit-bearing spirit keeps for his own in every house that he builds--alas so long in most human houses shut away from the rest of the rooms and forgotten, or recollected with uneasiness as a lumber-closet in which lie too many things that had better not be looked into? But what matter where the voice that had said them, so long as the words were true, and she might believe them!--Whatever is true CAN be believed of the true heart. Ere she knew, Helen was on her knees, with her head on the chair, yet once more crying to the hearer of cries--possible or impossible being she knew not in the least, but words reported of him had given birth to the cry--to help her in her dire need. Instead of any word, or thought even, coming to her that might be fancied an answer, she was scared from her knees by an approaching step---that of the house-keeper come to look for her with the message from her aunt that Leopold was more restless than usual, not at all like himself, and she could do nothing with him. CHAPTER XXII. A HAUNTED SOUL. Helen rose and hastened to her brother, with a heart of lead in her body.