CHAPTER VI.

THE PASTOR'S STUDY.

THE evening of the same day found them seated in the small, cosey study of the parsonage.

Mr. Knowles, a white-haired man with a peculiarly mild, benign countenance, sat near the window, his silver locks illumined with the last rays of the setting sun.

At his feet Helen had seated herself on an ottoman. From her expressive features the haughty defiance had vanished. For the nonce she was a humble child. Her eyelashes were heavy with unshed tears, not bitter ones, for they had been talking of her father. And these precious memories softened and soothed her poor, torn heart.

Opposite them sat Frank and the cheerful companion of the clergyman. They were conversing in animated tones of college life and college duties, while Sybil, an unmarried daughter, moved in and out in the preparation of the simple evening meal.

"Come, father," she said, at length, "supper is on the table. And if you wish your pet Helen to enjoy Jane's waffles, you must come while they are hot."

A few words entreating a blessing on the food were spoken by the pastor before they were seated. Frank, whose eyes happened to turn toward his sister, was astonished to see her face quivering with emotion. This had passed, however, without notice. And during the meal, he had never remembered to have seen her more cheerful, fascinating all present by her life-like, piquant descriptions of scenes through which she had passed.

"Bring the Bible and Psalm book, Sybil," said the good man, when all had eaten, and were full. "Our friends will love to join us in our evening devotions."

Helen sprang from the table, and passed him the books.

"You always used to let me do it," she exclaimed, playfully.

She seated herself close to his elbow, opening the book at the place where the mark was inserted, and then putting her hand lovingly through his arm.

Occasionally, through the reading, Frank saw her give the arm a loving squeeze. And once the impulsive girl pressed her lips warmly on the wrinkled hand, when the silver-haired man turned upon her a glance so full of tenderness, that the watcher saw she could scarcely preserve her composure.

Indeed, when the few verses of evening praise had been sung, and the pastor poured out his earnest petitions for the friends present to unite in the service, she was wholly overcome, so that her sobs became quite audible.

No sooner had they risen from their kneeling posture, than she darted from the room.

"Oh! Oh!" she faltered, when Sybil followed, and tried to soothe her. "Oh, if I lived here, I might become good. I do love prayers from real Christian men. But now I'm bad,—all bad!"

It was quite late before the pastor would allow his visitors to leave. And then he followed them to the gate, bidding them return in the morning, as he had much to say. He passed his hand lovingly over Helen's abundant tresses, before he allowed his wife to take the young girl to her heart for a good-night kiss.

"She is overflowing with affection," he said, when with Sybil they had turned back to the house.

"Something has changed her," dryly remarked the practical Sybil. "I haven't yet made up my mind whether the change is for the better or for the worse."

Nurse Johnson had lived in the family of Mrs. Edmond's mother. She had followed the young wife to Woodbine Cottage, and been an early friend to Frank and Helen. In her sixtieth year, her kind master fitted up a small house formerly used by the gardener, and gave her a life-lease of it. It was a terrible trial to her when the old home was broken up, and her children, as she fondly called them, moved away. Eyes less sharp than hers would have discovered a change in the once lively Helen. It is not strange, therefore, that her love for her youthful mistress led the affectionate woman to wonder what had occurred during the few months since her master's decease.

"Here is your room," she said, leading the way to a tiny chamber under the eaves, "and Frank's is close by. Everything is sweet and clean, so you wont mind for once that it is small."

"No, indeed, nurse, I shall not mind anything, now I am where people love me for myself. I can lie here in the morning, and smell the fragrant honeysuckle, and hear the birds warbling their pleasant songs. Carry out the light, nurse, and let me see the trees waving in the moonlight, What pretty shadows the leaves make on the floor. Nurse, I call this a paradise, and I would like to live here always."

She threw her arms around the neck of her old friend, and sobbed quietly to herself.

"I knew ye weren't quite happy, darling. Ye couldn't deceive yer old nurse, with all yer smiles and gay tones. I seed right through inter yer heart; and when yer was out walking with yer brother, says I to myself, 'My pet isn't sitiwated as she oughter be, her eyes don't dance permiscuous as they used to do; and I can hear a plaint of sadness through her laugh.' Now sit down on yer bed, darling, and tell yer old nurse all about it."

For one instant Helen was tempted to yield and unburden her heart of its load. But a moment's reflection convinced her that her partial friend would be a most injudicious confident. Nurse would be sure to espouse her views, right or wrong; to endorse her own conduct, to hate whoever she fancied had injured one she loved, and thus be incapable of giving any good advice.

Still she would not wound the feelings of a friend so devoted, by refusing to place confidence in her, and therefore answered cautiously:

"It has been hard for me, nurse, to live with strangers, and I miss dear papa every hour in the day."

"That's it, pet; that's just what it is. You're grieving yourself to death, and that's wrong. The good Lord has took him home, and if yer try to do right, and love the dear Saviour, he'll call yer in his own good time. Now go to bed, and to-morrow ye 'll look more like yerself."

Exhausted by the various emotions of the day, our heroine was soon buried in a profound slumber, from which she did not arouse until the sun was high in the heavens. She started from her couch, and began to dress in great haste, only stopping occasionally to listen to the carolling of the redbreasts, or the familiar sounds from the farmyard.

The house was so small it was easy to hear every word spoken. And Helen, as she hurriedly twisted her abundant hair into a heavy coil, and hid it under a net, could distinctly follow the conversation taking place on the open porch beneath her window.

"I wish she had never left here," Frank was saying. "I'm afraid her health will be seriously affected. Mr. Knowles would have known exactly how to deal with her."

"What hinders her from coming back now? Miss Sybil would be delighted to have her there, and I've heard say that Mr. Frederic is coming home from his travels before long. He could tutor her just as he used to."

The listener held her breath. She could not afford to lose one word now. How changed she was. There was an air of softness about her, while her usually pale cheeks were of the richest crimson. What a pity there was nobody but the birds to see her.

A little maiden from a neighboring cottage came sauntering up to the door at this moment, to bring some eggs fresh laid, and Frank, impatient at his sister's late appearance, ran gayly up the steep stairs to call her, just as she was saying to herself, with clasped hands:

"Oh, what a happiness that would be!"