CHAPTER XIII.

SYBIL'S VISITS.

"I SUPPOSE there is no more danger. I can go home now," faltered Helen, with an appealing glance in her companion's face.

"There is no danger, but I would like to see a little color in your cheeks before we start."

"There they are!" cried Sybil's clear, ringing tones. "Come, father, let us hurry on."

Frederic held out his hand to assist Helen over the wall, and she was standing to receive the others when they came up.

Sybil started forward, and catching Helen in her arms burst into a loud cry over her. But presently recovering herself, she exclaimed:

"There, Helen Edmond! I wouldn't live the last hour over again, not for my right hand." Then, wiping her eyes, she added, "You've made me act like a fool, I believe. I don't often snivel in this way."

But happening to catch a glimpse of the young girl's blanched lips, she burst out again, crying:

"It's horrible to think what might have happened. Frederic what makes you stand there, when Helen looks as if she'd sink to the ground?"

Mr. Knowles in the meantime came hurrying to the spot, and opening his arms, the poor excited girl threw herself into his embrace.

"You've caused us a terrible fright, my dear," he said, tenderly caressing her head which lay against his bosom. "We must not forget who watched over you and protected you from danger."

"He saved my life," murmured Helen, glancing toward her preserver.

"Under God, my child. God gave him the ability to outrun the mad creature."

"And the willingness to put his own life in jeopardy to save yours," added the practical Sybil.

"Did you do that?" eagerly asked Helen, seizing the young man's hand.

"What would my life have been worth, if the dog had overtaken you?" he whispered, leaning toward her.

She started from him, the color mounting to her brow, and putting her arm within Sybil's said:

"Will you please to come home with me?"

"That is my intention. You must go to bed and have some boneset tea. I don't like your looks, one moment white as a sheet, the next red as fire. Like as not, the shock will give you a fever."

"Shall I send the doctor to Woodbine Cottage?" inquired Frederic, anxiously.

"Oh, no!" replied Helen, with a weary smile. "I only need rest. If I can forget those dreadful sounds, I shall be well."

She held out her hand to the young clergyman, though she had not courage to look him in the face, and receiving an additional charge from the good pastor to be careful of herself, turned in the direction of her home.

Thanks to Sybil's boneset tea which the poor victim, to please her friend, drank clear and strong, or perhaps to the pleasant emotions stirred in her heart, the next day found our heroine quite as well as if no dreadful danger had threatened her life.

She arose as early as usual, and for a while gave herself up to receive the petting of old nurse, who was greatly excited by the accident. Then she sat down to breakfast, smiling and blushing to herself, lingering over her chocolate, muffins and eggs, until nurse wondered whether the fright had not been too much for her.

"He will certainly be here this morning," Helen said to herself, "but what can I say to thank him?"

She was still at the table, when she heard a ring at the door-boll. Her heart fluttered so dreadfully, she could scarcely stand; and she flew to the opposite door in order to escape to her chamber.

"My wife wouldn't give me any rest till I'd been to see how Miss was, after the fright," said a loud, good-natured voice, and the owner of it walked in at the back door, just in time to meet Helen.

"I shot the mad dog," he said, in explanation, "and I would have shot him with a better will, if I'd known 'twas Mr. Edmond's daughter he was running after."

Helen shook the man's hand in a cordial manner, and then drew a chair forward for him to sit down.

"I allus set store by Parson Knowles and his family," the visitor went on, "but I never know what a smart one that son o' his'n was, till I see him start off to overtake you. 'Twas a miracle, and nothing else, how he got the start of us, and threw you over the wall. You see I couldn't fire afore, I was afraid of shooting you. If he's as smart at writing sermons as he is at running, I'll promise to be one of his most reg'lar hearers."

"I shall have reason to thank you and him as long as I live," faltered Helen, her voice trembling. "Of all horrible diseases, I think hydrophobia is most to be dreaded."

It was usual for the young lady, after arranging her domestic affairs, to walk down to the parsonage and recite the lessons learned the day before. But this morning, even if she had been prepared with lessons, something held her back from going to meet the one being who occupied all her thoughts.

Immediately after the departure of her visitor, she opened her piano, and tried to fix her mind on her practice, but this she found was impossible. A voice continually sounded in her ears, "What would my life have been worth if the dog had overtaken you?" And then those sweet epithets when she awoke—"Helen, my darling, have they killed you?"

Just as the hall clock was striking ten, the door opened and Sybil walked in.

It was evident something had occurred to vex her, for her mouth was set hard and defiant, though her inquiries about the health of her favorite were as tender as ever. She bustled about, tumbling the music over, and peeping into Helen's portfolio, until the young lady asked what she was looking for.

"Well!" she exclaimed, throwing off her shawl. "I may as well own up. I used to think Sybil Knowles above the weaknesses of her sex, but I confess I made an egregious mistake. She's just like the rest of 'em, and that's enough news for one morning."

She caught up her shawl and pinned it across her breast, keeping her mouth tightly shut all the time.

"You're not going yet," cried Helen, seizing her arm. "I wanted to hear about—about—your father, and all the family."

"They're all well, thank you," was the unpromising reply, and Sybil made toward the door. But catching a glimpse of her pet's tear-dimmed eyes, she hesitated, and then explained:

"It's no use to hide it. We've had a stormy time at home this morning. I don't approve of it, and I never will. Only last night I thought—well, it's no matter what an old maid like me thought,—but now there's fury and all to pay. I wouldn't have believed there was so little sense in the world."

"What do you mean, Sybil? I can't understand a word you say."

"Well, I'll ask one plain question, though perhaps you'll think it's none of my business. Why didn't you tell me about Roswell Edmond Tracy! There? I've done it; and I am not sorry either," as Helen's face grew crimson. "I took you to be a frank girl, and I would have set your truthfulness against the world."

She twitched her hand from her companion and walked off stiffly down the avenue.

Before Helen, astonished beyond measure by her words and actions, could recover herself, the woman was almost out of sight.

"What can it mean? I'll go right down to the parsonage and find out," was the young lady's first resolution. But after what had occurred the day before, she shrank from putting herself in the way of meeting Frederic. It belonged to him to seek an interview.

The rest of the morning she wandered about the house, wondering what could have occurred. By dinner time she had grown quite indignant, and resolved if her preserver (as she now designated him) came, she would not be at home to see him.

Nannie was dispatched to the farmer to procure a steady horse which she could drive to Mottville. And as soon as the conveyance was ready, she started away, telling Nurse she should not return till dark.

Her route led her directly past the parsonage. But she took pains to turn off through a lane which joined the main street again a few hundred rods past the house.

Her heart misgave her somewhat as she drove slowly by the spot where yesterday's danger and escape occurred.

"How differently I should have been employed now," she said to herself, "had not Frederic jeoparded his life for mine."

After this, she rode on speculating on Sybil's singular conduct. And from this, there arose another question which gave her so much pain that for the first time she became conscious of the strength of her attachment to her teacher. The question was this:

"Would Frederic's parents approve me for a daughter-in-law? Am I fit for a clergyman's wife?"

Conscience unhesitatingly answered, "No. Frederic is a warm-hearted, earnest Christian; and I am—what am I? If not for Christ, I am against him. I must take a stand somewhere."

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