d-hearted woman was delighted to think that she could restore Helen
to some safe home. While thus thinking, Helen herself entered the
kitchen where Mrs. Smedley sat, and the landlady had the imprudence to
point out the advertisement, and talk, as she called it, "seriously," to
the little girl.

Helen in vain and with tears entreated her to take no step in reply to
the advertisement. Mrs. Smedley felt that it was an affair of duty,
and was obdurate, and shortly afterwards put on her bonnet and left the
house. Helen conjectured that she was on her way to Miss Starke's, and
her whole soul was bent on flight. Leonard had gone to the office of
the "Beehive" with his manuscripts; but she packed up all their joint
effects, and just as she had done so, he returned. She communicated
the news of the advertisement, and said she should be so miserable if
compelled to go back to Miss Starke's, and implored him so pathetically
to save her from such sorrow, that he at once assented to her proposal
of flight. Luckily, little was owing to the landlady,--that little was
left with the maid-servant; and, profiting by Mrs. Smedley's absence,
they escaped without scene or conflict. Their effects were taken by
Leonard to a stand of hackney vehicles, and then left at a coach-office
while they went in search of lodgings. It was wise to choose an entirely
new and remote district; and before night they were settled in an attic
in Lambeth.

CHAPTER XIII.

As the reader will expect, no trace of Burley could Leonard find: the
humourist had ceased to communicate with the "Beehive." But Leonard
grieved for Burley's sake; and, indeed, he missed the intercourse of the
large, wrong mind. But he settled down by degrees to the simple, loving
society of his child companion, and in that presence grew more tranquil.
The hours in the daytime that he did not pass at work, he spent as
before, picking up knowledge at book-stalls; and at dusk he and Helen
would stroll out,--sometimes striving to escape from the long suburb
into fresh rural air; more often wandering to and fro the bridge that
led to glorious Westminster--London's classic land--and watching the
vague lamps reflected on the river. This haunt suited the musing,
melancholy boy. He would stand long and with wistful silence by the
balustrade, seating Helen thereon, that she too might look along the
dark mournful waters, which, dark though they be, still have their charm
of mysterious repose.