friends and human justice?"

"Did he pray to God?" asked Helen, drying her tears. Again Leonard was
startled. In reading the life of Chatterton he had not much noted
the scepticism, assumed or real, of the ill-fated aspirer to earthly
immortality. At Helen's question, that scepticism struck him forcibly.
"Why do you ask that, Helen?"

"Because, when we pray often, we grow so very, very patient," answered
the child. "Perhaps, had he been patient a few months more, all would
have been won by him, as it will be by you, brother, for you pray, and
you will be patient."

Leonard bowed his head in deep thought, and this time the thought was
not gloomy. Then out from that awful life there glowed another passage,
which before he had not heeded duly, but regarded rather as one of the
darkest mysteries in the fate of Chatterton.

At the very time the despairing poet had locked himself up in his
garret, to dismiss his soul from its earthly ordeal, his genius had just
found its way into the light of renown. Good and learned and powerful
men were preparing to serve and save him. Another year--nay, perchance
another month--and he might have stood acknowledged sublime in the
foremost ranks of his age.

"Oh, Helen!" cried Leonard, raising his brows, from which the cloud had
passed, "why, indeed, did you leave me?"

Helen started in her turn as he repeated this regret, and in her turn
grew thoughtful. At length she asked him if he had written for the box
which had belonged to her father and been left at the inn.

And Leonard, though a little chafed at what he thought a childish
interruption to themes of graver interest, owned, with self-reproach,
that he had forgotten to do so. Should he not write now to order the box
to be sent to her at Miss Starke's?

"No; let it be sent to you. Take care of it. I should like to know that
something of mine is with you; and perhaps I may not stay here long."

"Not stay here? That you must, my dear Helen,--at least as long as
Miss Starke will keep you, and is kind. By and by" (added Leonard, with
something of his former sanguine tone) "I may yet make my way, and we
shall have our cottage to ourselves. But--oh, Helen!--I forgot--you
wounded me; you left your money with me. I only found it in my drawers
the other day. Fie! I have brought it back."

"It was not mine,--it is yours. We were to share together,--you paid
all; and how can I want it here, too?" But Leonard was obstinate; and
as Hele