ppressed soul from the shackles of society. But in the morning he
had had occasion to find out, that the tangle of his ideas grew worse
in solitude. And besides, he felt irresistibly rivetted to Helen's
presence, with chains he could not break. He kept an anxious watch over
every gesture, every look, every word, that might possibly throw some
light on his chances of really losing her.

He too had lived on heedlessly by her side, without ever asking
himself, how long this state of things was to last--What they called
the feeling that united them--so long as they _had_ it, what cared he?
From the time he could remember anything, or anybody, after the mother
that bore him, Helen had been the person most essential to his
existence.

And the last few years, that had brought him to the age of manhood and
independence, had only served to strengthen the closeness and
confidence of their relations. In the same proportion as he had grown
beyond her guidance in commoner things, he came more eagerly to seek it
in every thing that perplexed his head or heart. What she had been to
him;--sister, mother, friend, play-fellow--grave or gay, the companion
of every hour--he had no name for it. Indeed, he had never thought of
naming it: with regard to her, the terms handsome--charming--least of
all dangerous--had no sense for him; she was herself, and that was all
he cared for.

And now he was suddenly to reconcile himself to the perception, that
she was a woman like other women, creating passions;--attracting men,
awakening jealous rivalry. The idea seemed so preposterous, that he
felt as if his own life had become strange to him. Only last night,
when she had told him of her first love, he had listened, as he had
done when they used to tell each other fairy tales, and expound each
other's dreams--and now these most inconceivable realities had to be
accepted as facts--one man had been a suitor for her hand; another had
been silently rejected by her.--Would these last pretensions find no
favor in her eyes?--and if they did?--How insupportable he found the
torture, when he tried to think of her as the wife of any man living.
In his unsullied soul, there arose an indefinable sensation of wrong
and shame, that ran through his veins like liquid fire. He would have
given his life to shield her from a look; and when he recalled the
coarseness of his comrade's words, he involuntarily clenched his fist.
And yet, while he was walking behind her n