were distributed among them. Mr. Folliard himself felt his spirit
animated by a sense of the danger, and bustled about with uncommon
energy and activity, considering what he had suffered in the course of
the evening. At all events, they both resolved to conceal the matter
from Helen till the last moment, in order to spare her the terror and
alarm which she must necessarily feel on hearing of the contemplated
violence. At tea, however, she could not avoid observing that something
had disturbed her father, who, from his naturally impetuous character,
ejaculated, from time to time, "The bloodthirsty scoundrel!--murdering
ruffian! We shall hang him, though; we can hang him for the conspiracy.
Would the fool's, Tom Steeples', evidence be taken, do you think?"

"I fear not, sir," replied Reilly. "In the meantime, don't think of it,
don't further distress yourself about it."

"To think of attacking my house, though; and if it were only I myself
that--however, we are prepared, that's one comfort; we are prepared, and
let them--hem!--Helen, my darling, now that we've had our tea, will
you retire to your own room. I wish to talk to Mr. Reilly here, on
a particular and important subject, in which you yourself are deeply
concerned. Withdraw, my love, but don't go to bed until I see you
again."

Helen went upstairs with a light foot and a bounding heart. A certain
hope, like a dream of far-off and unexpected happiness, rushed into
and filled her bosom with a crowd of sensations so delicious that, on
reaching her own room, she felt completely overpowered by them, and was
only relieved by a burst of tears. There was now but one image before
her imagination, but one image impressed upon her pure and fervent
heart; that image was the first that love had ever stamped there, and