The word had a contrary effect on Leonard. Sweet as it was, tender as
the voice that spoke it, it imposed a boundary to affection, it came as
a knell to hope. He recoiled, shook his head mournfully: "Too late to
accept that tie,--too late even for friendship. Henceforth--for long
years to come--henceforth, till this heart has ceased to beat at your
name to thrill at your presence, we two--are strangers."

"Strangers! Well--yes, it is right--it must be so; we must not meet.
Oh, Leonard Fairfield, who was it that in those days that you recall to
me, who was it that found you destitute and obscure; who, not degrading
you by charity, placed you in your right career; opened to you, amidst
the labyrinth in which you were well-nigh lost, the broad road to
knowledge, independence, fame? Answer me,--answer! Was it not the same
who reared, sheltered your sister orphan? If I could forget what I have
owed to him, should I not remember what he has done for you? Can I hear
of your distinction, and not remember it? Can I think how proud she may
be who will one day lean on your arm, and bear the name you have already
raised beyond all the titles of an hour,--can I think of this, and not
remember our common friend, benefactor, guardian? Would you forgive me,
if I failed to do so?"

"But," faltered Leonard, fear mingling with the conjectures these words
called forth--"but is it that Lord L'Estrange would not consent to our
union? Or of what do you speak? You bewilder me."

Helen felt for some moments as if it were impossible to reply; and the
words at length were dragged forth as if from the depth of her very soul.

"He came to me, our noble friend. I never dreamed of it. He did not
tell me that he loved me. He told me that he was unhappy, alone; that in