friendless at last in the streets of London. Helen, too, smiled for the
first time on being asked her wishes, and again put her hand in
Leonard's. In short, so it was settled.

The little girl made up a bundle of the things she most prized or needed.
Leonard did not feel the additional load, as he slung it to his knapsack;
the rest of the luggage was to be sent to London as soon as Leonard wrote
(which he promised to do soon) and gave an address.

Helen paid her last visit to the churchyard; and she joined her companion
as he stood on the road, without the solemn precincts. And now they had
gone on some hours; and when he asked her if she were tired, she still
answered "No." But Leonard was merciful, and made their day's journey
short; and it took them some days to reach London. By the long lonely
way they grew so intimate, at the end of the second day, they called each
other brother and sister; and Leonard, to his delight, found that as her
grief, with the bodily movement and the change of scene, subsided from
its first intenseness and its insensibility to other impressions, she
developed a quickness of comprehension far beyond her years. Poor child!
that had been forced upon her by Necessity. And she understood him in
his spiritual consolations, half poetical, half religious; and she
listened to his own tale, and the story of his self-education and
solitary struggles,--those, too, she understood. But when he burst out
with his enthusiasm, his glorious hopes, his confidence in the fate
before them, then she would shake her head very quietly and very sadly.
Did she comprehend them! Alas! perhaps too well. She knew more as to
real life than he did. Leonard was at first their joint treasurer; but
before the second day was over, Helen seemed to discover that he was too
lavish; and she told him so, with a prudent grave look, putting her hand
on his arm as he was about to enter an inn to dine; and the gravity would