Miss
Digby seem born for each other? And then the recollections of their
childhood--the thoughts of childhood are so deep, and its memories so
strangely soft!" The long lashes drooped over Violante's musing eyes as
she spoke. "And therefore," she said, after a pause,--"therefore I hoped
that Miss Digby might not be very rich nor very high-born."

"I understand you now, Violante," exclaimed Jemima, her own early
passion for match-making instantly returning to her; "for as Leonard,
however clever and distinguished, is still the son of Mark Fairfield the
carpenter, it would spoil all if--Miss Digby was, as you say, rich and
high-born. I agree with you,--a very pretty match, a very pretty match,
indeed. I wish dear--Mrs. Dale were here now,--she is so clever in
settling such matters."

Meanwhile Leonard and Helen walked side by side a few paces in the rear.
He had not offered her his arm. They had been silent hitherto since they
left Riccabocca's house.

Helen now spoke first. In similar cases it is generally the woman, be
she ever so timid, who does speak first. And here Helen was the bolder;
for Leonard did not disguise from himself the nature of his feelings,
and Helen was engaged to another, and her pure heart was fortified by
the trust reposed in it.

"And have you ever heard more of the good Dr. Morgan, who had powders
against sorrow, and who meant to be so kind to us,--though," she added,
colouring, "we did not think so then?"

"He took my child-angel from me," said Leonard, with visible emotion;
"and if she had not returned, where and what should I be now? But I have
forgiven him. No, I have never met him since."

"And that terrible Mr. Burley?"

"Poor, poor Burley! He, too, is vanished out of my present life. I have
made many inquiries after him; all I can hear is that he went abroad,
supposed as a correspondent to some journal. I should like so much to
see him again, now that perhaps I could help him as he helped me."

"Helped you--ah!"

Leonard smiled with a beating heart, as he saw again the dear prudent,
warning look, and involuntarily drew closer to Helen. She seemed more
restored to him and to her former self.

"Helped me much by his instructions; more, perhaps, by his very faults.
You cannot guess, Helen,--I beg pardon, Miss Digby, but I forgot that we
are no longer children,--you cannot guess how much we men, and more than
all, perhaps, we writers whose task it is to unravel the web of human
a