CHAPTER XII.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

AS Autumn advanced, Helen Josephine recommenced her studies with great zeal. Before he left Maytown, her brother marked out a course of reading for her, in connection with which she promised to write abstracts daily of the works perused, for his subsequent examination. She also had two recitations a week in intellectual philosophy, in Mr. Knowles' study, and on the intervening days. Mr. Frederic taught her geometry.

On the last occasion, the young girl made it a condition that Sybil should be present, not that she imagined Mr. Frederic would embrace the opportunity to make love to her. But she distrusted her own powers to keep her mind on the lesson, except for the presence of the lynx-eyed, practical sister.

Little did she imagine while she was taking pains to prove that the line A was equal to the lines B and C, or that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles, that Sybil's thoughts were roving far from her knitting needles, which made so monotonous a clicking, and taking in the possibilities of a connection between the two beings she loved so well. And, moreover, that she was devising means to break up the increasing coolness between them.

Strange as it may appear, the more Frederic admired the mind and person of his young pupil, the more reserved his manner grew. Beautiful, accomplished, and heir to a large fortune, he could scarcely admit the possibility of winning her to be the wife of a poor country clergyman. And yet sometimes in the retirement of his own chamber, a recollection of what he saw in her eyes when he asked her to forgive him, like a flash of electricity, sent hope surging through all his being. He was ready now to confess to himself that his love for the young English girl was tame and without vitality, compared with the emotions which at present filled his breast.

Yet his resolution was strong, never to allow Helen to become aware of his attachment. Sometimes, however, when her recitations had been uncommonly good, and she turned her beaming eyes upon him, wondering he did not praise her, it required all his strength of purpose to restrain his lips from expressing what was in his heart.

Meanwhile, Sybil sat knitting row after row upon the socks she was forming for her poor protégés in the parish; and wove castle after castle in regard to the future of those before her.

"It's all sheer stuff and nonsense," was her silent soliloquy, "to prove that one letter of the alphabet is as good or better than another. They're all good enough in their way; and it's a mark of childishness I didn't expect of Fred to be spending so much time about such trifles. But it will do as well as anything else to bring them together; and that's the main point at present."

But Sybil loved her brother's pupil too well not to strive to interest her in duties more important than the comparative value of A, B and C. She related the histories of her poor people, and often invited the young girl to accompany her in her visits. She encouraged her to aid those who were really needy, but reminded her that it was a better form of charity to teach the poor to help themselves.

Near Woodbine Cottage, Helen and her brother had their own protégés, whom, even when absent, they had always supported in part. One of these, the bedridden woman, had some months before received her welcome summons, and had gone home to her rest. But there were others who looked to the children of their loved benefactor at Woodbine Cottage for aid, and who expected the young lady to make them frequent calls.

Thus busy in her studies, her domestic duties and her charities, the autumn was passing quietly and usefully away, when some events occurred which greatly changed the current of her thoughts.

On the outskirts of the village of Maytown and about three miles from the church near the centre, a large stocking factory had been erected, which led in the course of a few years to the building of a dozen or more small, cheap houses in the vicinity, for the families of the working people.

Frank and his sister rode through the new village, or Mottville as it had been named, out of compliment to the owner of the factory, and had wondered where all the children running wild about the tenements went to school, as there was no appearance of a schoolhouse near by. But all thought of them was forgotten in subjects of greater interest, until one day Helen heard Frederic talking to his sister about the place.

"Why not have a Sabbath school in one of the houses?" she asked, her countenance beaming with animation.

"Exactly what I have wished," echoed the young clergyman, warmly; "but I do not know any room of suitable size."

"Hire any room to begin with," suggested Sybil. "You wont have many scholars at first."

"I should like to try, and see how many I could obtain," said Helen, glancing timidly in Frederic's face.

"They are rough people," answered the young man. "It would not do for you to go alone."

"I don't think there would be any danger. I used to go to worse places in the city, and I never met with abuse. If you will let me try it, I will begin to-morrow."

He fixed on her a gaze so full of admiration, that she felt her cheeks burn, as she added, "I will inquire about a room first. How much ought I to give for the use of it?"

"Very little. It is altogether probable that you will have one offered you. But I am anxious lest you should be annoyed. I would offer my services to go with you, but—"

"Oh! I would much prefer going alone; that is, I should not dare to talk to the people before the minister."

"Since when have you become so diffident, Helen?"

Not considering an answer to this question necessary, Helen rose at once to return home.

It was the middle of the afternoon of a very warm day in November. Having bid her friends adieu in a gay tone, our young friend passed through the gate with her sack hanging on her arm. From the dimples around her mouth, one might conclude her thoughts were pleasant ones.

She had but a quarter of a mile to walk, and was already two thirds of the distance, when she heard the sound of loud shouting behind her.

Curious, but not alarmed, she stopped, gazed into the distance, and not being able to discern anything, mounted a stone in order to see farther over the hill.

She now perceived several men making signs and furious gestures, the meaning of which she was entirely at a loss to understand.

Every moment the confusion increased, the men came running toward her, shouting and gesticulating, whether to her or to some other person she could not in her bewildered state decide.

Sometimes running on a few steps and then stopping to look about her, at length to her horror she sees one man in advance of the rest, and instantly concludes he is a madman broken loose from the hospital.

The screams and cries are now so near at hand that the poor girl can distinctly hear the words:

"Fire! Shoot him! He'll catch her! She's right in his path! No, there's too much danger!"

On, on she flies. It is for her life, while the man frantically shrieks:

"Dodge him! Jump the fence! Quick, or you'll be too late!"

She knows now that the danger is imminent, her breath comes shorter and shorter. She lifts her heart in one earnest prayer:

"Lord help me!"

Then, overcome with fright and fatigue she staggers, and is about to fall, when a strong arm lifts her from the ground. She is thrown over the wall; her companion leaps after her. A gun is discharged, a groan follows, and her consciousness forsakes her.

How long she lay in this state she never knew. At last she is aroused by lips pressed to hers, a voice murmuring her name in a tone of agony.

"Helen, my darling, awake! Have they killed you?"

Languidly she opened her eyes and found herself in the arms of her teacher.

"What has happened? Who is killed?" she gasped, trying to disengage herself from his close embrace.

"Father, accept my thanks," was Frederic's fervent ejaculation.

"I heard a gun," urged Helen. "Who is killed?"

"A dog, a mad dog. Can you guess what I have suffered?"

She staggered against him, the color again receding from her face and lips.

And almost without knowing what he did, her preserver strained her once more to his heart.

"You saved my life," she murmured, her lips quivering, while great drops trickled down her cheeks. She did not try to thank him. She sank back against the wall and wept quietly to herself.

"God be praised," was his only answer.

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