"Helen," said he, very sadly, "you cannot continue here. I must find out
some proper home for you. This man has served me when all London was
friendless, and he tells me that he has nowhere else to go,--that the
bailiffs are after him. He has now fallen asleep. I will go and find
you some lodging close at hand, for I cannot expel him who has protected
me; and yet you cannot be under the same roof with him. My own good
angel, I must lose you."

He did not wait for her answer, but hurried down stairs. The morning
looked through the shutterless panes in Leonard's garret, and the birds
began to chird from the elmtree, when Burley rose and shook himself, and
stared round. He could not quite make out where he was. He got hold of
the water-jug, which he emptied at three draughts, and felt greatly
refreshed. He then began to reconnoitre the chamber,--looked at
Leonard's manuscripts, peeped into the drawers, wondered where the devil
Leonard himself had gone to, and finally amused himself by throwing down
the fireirons, ringing the bell, and making all the noise he could, in
the hopes of attracting the attention of somebody or other, and procuring
himself his morning dram.

In the midst of this charivari the door opened softly, but as if with a
resolute hand, and the small quiet form of Helen stood before the
threshold. Burley turned round, and the two looked at each other for
some moments with silent scrutiny.

BURLEY (composing his features into their most friendly expression).--
"Come hither, my dear. So you are the little girl whom I saw with
Leonard on the banks of the Brent, and you have come back to live with
him,--and I have come to live with him too. You shall be our little