e to her inmost soul. Death itself
seemed preferable to his displeasure.

"I _am_ afraid," she answered, "but I will go since you _will_ it."

"I do wish it," he replied, "but I leave it to your own will to
accomplish it."

Helen could not believe that he really intended she should go alone,
when _he_ had left his sister behind. She was sure he would follow and
overtake her before she reached the narrow path she so much dreaded to
traverse. She went on very rapidly, looking back to see if he were not
behind, listening to hear if her name were not called by his well-known
voice. But she heard not his footsteps, nor the sound of his voice. She
heard nothing but the wind sighing through the trees, or the notes of
some solitary bird, seeking its nest among the branches.

"Arthur is not kind, to-day," thought she. "I wonder what has changed
him so. It was not my place to go after Alice, when he left her himself
in the woods. What right has he to command me so? And how foolish I am
to obey him, as if he were my master and lord!"

She was at first very angry with Arthur, and anger always gives one
strength and power. Any excited passion does. She ran on, almost
forgetting her fears, and the shadows lightened up as she met them face
to face. Then she thought of Alice alone in the woods--so blind and
helpless. Perhaps she would be frightened at the darkening solitude, and
try to find her path homeward, on the edge of that slippery, beetling
rock. With no hand to sustain, no eye to guide, how could she help
falling into the watery chasm below? In her fears for Alice, she forgot
her own imaginary danger, and flew on, sending her voice before her,
bearing on its trembling tones the sweet name of Alice.

She reached the rock, and paused under the tree that hung so darkly over
it. The waterfall sounded so much louder than when she stood there last,
she was sure the waters had accumulated, and were threatening to dash
themselves above. They had an angry, turbulent roar, and keeping close
in a line with the tree, she hurried on to the silver bower Alice so
much loved, and which she had seen her enter, clinging to the hand of
Arthur. Helen, had to lift up the hanging boughs and sweeping vines at
the entrance of the arbor, and cold shivers of terror ran through her
frame, for no voice responded to hers, though she had made the silence
all the way vocal with the name of Alice.

"If she is not here, she is dead," she cried, "and I w