He paused. She shook visibly, but still would hold what ground might yet be left her. "Why did you not give it me before?" she asked. "In the public street, or in your aunt's presence?" "You are cruel!" she panted. Her strength was going. "What do you know?" "Nothing so well as that I want to serve you, and you may trust me." "What do you mean to do?" "My best to help you and your brother." "But to what end?" "To any end that is right." "But how? What would you tell him to do?" "You must help me to discover what he ought to do." "Not--" she cried, clasping her hands and dropping on her knees before him, "--you WILL not tell him to give himself up? Promise me you will not, and I will tell you everything. He shall do anything you please but that! Anything but that!" Wingfold's heart was sore at sight of her agony. He would have raised her with soothing words of sympathy and assurance, but still she cried, "Promise me you will not make him give himself up." "I dare not promise anything." he said. "I MUST do what I may see to be right. Believe me, I have no wish to force myself into your confidence, but you have let me see that you are in great trouble and in need of help, and I should be unfaithful to my calling if I did not do my best to make you trust me." A pause followed. Helen rose despairingly, and they resumed their walk. Just as they reached the door in the fence which would let them out upon the meadow in sight of the Manor-house, she turned to him and said, "I will trust you, Mr. Wingfold. I mean, I will take you to my brother, and he shall do as he thinks proper." They passed out and walked across the meadow in silence. In the passage under the fence, as she turned from closing the door behind them, she stood and pressed her hand to her side. "Oh! Mr. Wingfold," she cried, "my heart will break! He has no one but me! No one but me to be mother and sister and all to him! He is NOT wicked--my poor darling!" She caught the curate by the arm with a grasp which left its mark behind it, and gazed appealingly into his face: in the dim tomb-like light, her wide-strained eyes, white agonized countenance, and trembling roseless lips made her look like one called back from death "to speak of horrors." "Save him from madness," she said, in forced and unnatural utterance. "Save him from the remorse gnawing at his heart. But do not, DO not counsel him to give himself up." "Would it not be better you should tell me about it," said the curate, "and save him the pain and excitement?"