y the shrubbery, and uttering a low scream,
was about to fly, when a hoarse laugh arrested her.

"It's only me," cried a rough, good-natured voice. "It's nobody but old
Becky. Young master told me to stay and watch Miss Alice, while she
slept, till somebody came after her. He knew old Becky wouldn't let
anybody harm the child--not she."

Old Becky, as she called herself, was a poor, harmless, half-witted
woman, who roamed about the neighborhood, subsisting on charity, whom
everybody knew and cared for. She was remarkably fond of children, and
had always shown great attachment for the blind girl. She had the
fidelity and sagacity of a dog, and would never leave any thing confided
to her care. She would do any thing in the world for young Master Arthur
as she styled him, or Mrs. Hazleton, for at the Parsonage she always
found a welcome, and it seemed to her the gate of Heaven. During the
life of Mr. Hazleton, she invariably attended public worship, and
listened to his sermons with the most reverential attention, though she
understood but a small portion of them--and when he died, her chief
lamentation was that he could not preach at her funeral. If young master
were a minister, that would be next best, but as he was only a doctor,
she consoled herself by asking him for medicine whenever he visited
home, whether she needed it or not, and Arthur never failed to make up
a quantity of bread pills and starch powders to gratify poor, harmless
Becky.

"Walk before us, please, Becky," cried Helen with a lightened heart, and
Becky marched on, proud to be of service, looking back every moment to
see if they were safe.

When they reached home, the candles were burning brightly in the
sitting-room, and the rose trees at the windows shone with a kind of
golden lustre in their beams. Helen suffered Becky to accompany Alice
into the house, knowing it would be to her a source of pride and
pleasure, and seating herself on the steps, tried to school herself so
as to appear with composure, and not allow Arthur to perceive how deeply
his apparent unkindness had wounded her feelings. While she thus sat,
breathing on the palm of her hand, and pressing it against her moist
eyelids to absorb the welling tears, Arthur himself crossed the yard and
came rapidly up the steps.

"What are you doing here, my sister?" said he, sitting down by her and
drawing away the hand from her showery eyes. Never had he spoken so
gently, so kindly. Helen could