long since we have seen him; I have called three times,--nay, five,--but
his odd-looking clerk always swears he is not at home. Tell me, Helen,
now you know him so well,--tell me how I can serve him? You know, I am
so terribly rich (at least, I shall be in a month or two), I can never
get through my money, unless my friends will help me. And is it not
shocking that that noble fellow should be so poor, and yet suffer me to
call him 'friend,' as if in friendship one man should want everything,
and the other nothing? Still, I don't know how to venture to propose.
Come, you understand me, Helen; let us lay our wise heads together and
make him well off, in spite of himself."

It was in this loose boyish talk of Percival that he had found the way,
not only to Helen's heart, but to her soul. For in this she (grand,
undeveloped poetess!) recognized a nobler poetry than we chain to
rhythm,--the poetry of generous deeds. She yearned to kiss the warm hand
she held, and drew nearer to his side as she answered: "And sometimes,
dear, dear Percival, you wonder why I would rather listen to you than to
all Mr. Varney's bitter eloquence, or even to my dear cousin's aspiring
ambition. They talk well, but it is of themselves; while you--"

Percival blushed, and checked her.

"Well," she said,--"well, to your question. Alas! you know little of my
cousin if you think all our arts could decoy him out of his rugged
independence; and much as I love him, I could not wish it. But do not
fear for him; he is one of those who are born to succeed, and without
help."

"How do you know that, pretty prophetess?" said Percival, with the
superior air of manhood. "I have seen more of the world than you have,