ut and within her; without, Venice and her historical
past and her monumental glory; within, a trembling little heart and
present danger and a burden of dishonour. But that was only a flash;
the needs of the minute banished all thinking that was not connected
with action; and the moment's business was to get her father home. She
had no thought now for the picturesque revealings of the moonlight and
obscurings of the shadow. Yet she was conscious of them, in that sharp
flash of contrast.

At getting upon his feet and out into the air and gloom of the little
street, Mr. Copley's head was very contused; or else he had taken more
wine than his daughter guessed. He was not fit to guide himself, or to
take care of her. As he seemed utterly at a standstill, Dolly naturally
and unconsciously set her face to go the way she had come; for one or
two turnings at least she was sure of it. Before those one or two
turnings were made, however, she was shocked and scared to find that
her father's walk was wavering; he swayed a little on his feet. The
street was empty; and if it had not been, what help could Dolly ask
for? A pang of great terror shot through her. She took her father's
arm, to endeavour to hold him fast; a task rather too much for her
little hands and slight frame; and feeling that in spite of her he
still moved unsteadily, and that she was an insufficient help, Dolly's
anguish broke forth in a cry; natural enough in its unreasoningness--

"O father, don't!--remember, I am all alone!"

How much was in the tone of those last words Dolly could not know; they
hardly reached Mr. Copley's sense, though they went through and through
another hearer. The next minute Rupert stood before the pair, and was
offering his arm to Mr. Copley. Not trusting his patron, in the
circumstances, to take care of his young mistress, Rupert had disobeyed
her orders so far as to keep the two figures in sight; he had watched
them from one turning to another, and had seen that his help was
needed, even before he heard Dolly's cry. Then, with a spring, he was
there. Mr. Copley leaned now upon his arm, and Dolly fell behind,
thankful unspeakably for the relief. She knew by this time that she
could never have found her way; and it was plain her father could not.

"Rupert," said Mr. Copley, half recognising the assistance afforded
him, "you're a good fellow, and always in the way when you aren't
wanted, by George!" But he leaned on his arm heavily.