The reader — whom it is an author’s happy privilege to suppose profoundly interested in the book before him — may possibly have felt some little inquisitiveness relative to Mr. Gilbert Gresham’s movements since he took prudent flight before the dangerous attractions of his ward. Prior to the autumn of the present year, the artist had maintained desultory communication with the house in Portland Place, his brief letters being in each case addressed to Mrs. Cumberbatch. He always requested to be kindly remembered to Miss Norman, and desired that she would not fail to acquaint him with any service he could perform for her. Politeness required such sentences as these, and it was very rarely indeed that Mr. Gresham deviated from the laws of conventional courtesy. For the rest, he appeared to have perfectly recovered his health and spirits. He was somewhat unsettled, living principally in Italy, with an occasional visit to Switzerland or Germany; but lately he gravitated towards Paris, always his favourite city, but which he could not persuade himself to visit till quite assured that he should find there peace and quietude. His art was by no means neglected. During the present year, he had sent several pictures to England, three of which had found a place in the Academy exhibition.

But, early in August, Mrs. Cumberbatch had received a letter from her nephew, containing more momentous news than that with which his epistles were ordinarily freighted. In the first place, he acquainted his aunt with the fact that the end of the month would in all probability see him again in England. He was coming over with a party of friends from Paris, who were desirous of making a brief tour in the United Kingdom, some half-dozen of whom he would probably entertain for a few weeks at his house before they commenced, and as they returned from their expedition. The next and more important item of intelligence, was to the effect that the lease of the house in Portland Place terminated on Christmas Day of the present year, and that, all things considered, he did not think he should renew it. He was at present in negotiation for the purchase of a house in Versailles. Should he effect this purchase, he should take up his abode indefinitely in France. Nothing was said of either Mrs. Cumberbatch or Helen Norman. The former might, of course, consider herself as very shortly to be de trop. The latter, when made acquainted with the contents of this letter, could not help wondering somewhat anxiously what views her worthy guardian entertained with regard to her future.

The suspense of both was put to an end when, towards the middle of August, Mr. Gresham himself appeared, accompanied by the threatened Parisian friends. The meeting with her guardian was not so awkward as Helen had feared. Mr. Gresham had come forward to meet her with a pleasant smile, and, whilst shaking her hand, had spoken a few agreeable words in a manner as far from embarrassment as could well be imagined. He was evidently quite his old self, with the exception that his cynicism had become even a little more pronounced. Throughout his guests’ stay, he spoke but little with Helen, limiting himself to gentlemanly solicitude on the score of her health, and exchanging a few words with regard to Maud and her husband, both of whom, bye-the-by, were present once or twice to meet the French visitors. Helen could not help marvelling where his paternal feelings had gone to when he spoke on the latter subject. He mentioned Maud very much as he would have mentioned any newly-married young lady with whom he had been acquainted, and appeared glad that she moved a good deal in the world. Maud rather wanted ton he said, and in this way she would acquire it.

Helen was rather surprised that her guardian made no mention to her of his proposed change of residence, and at length concluded that either he had altered his mind, or he would not speak on the subject till his return from the tour. But, on the last day, Mr. Gresham intimated to her that he would be glad of half-an-hour’s private conversation in the library, and she went thither with pleasure in the prospect of having her doubts solved.

Mr. Gresham stood with his back to the fire when his ward entered, and, stepping forward with a motion of the utmost politeness, he begged her to be seated. He began to speak as if the conversation was to be no more than an ordinary one.

“I am glad to see, Miss Norman,” he said, with a smile of polished cynicism, “that you have abandoned to ruder, and therefore more suitable, hands the task with which you were employed when I left England.”

He had always addressed her as Miss Norman since his return, never as Helen.

“I fear I have obtained your good opinion by false pretences,” replied Helen, also smiling, though in her own frank manner.

“What! You still play the part of an aggravated species of sister of mercy?”

“I still do what little good I can,” she replied.

“But I think you have never been absent for any great time since we have been here?”

“It would have been scarcely respectful to these ladies and gentlemen to absent myself each day.”

“And you continue to go to the unknown regions of the East?”

“There is still no lack of employment there.”

He paused for a few moments, still smiling, though with a subdued expression of surprise upon his countenance.

“Mrs. Cumberbatch probably acquainted you,” he resumed, “with my intention to give up this house, and live near Paris?”

“She did.”

“Yes,” he continued, looking up to the ceiling with a curious smile of self-ridicule. “I hesitated long and gravely between the Dorsetshire farm and a very passable little house in Versailles, and at length I arrived at the conclusion that my temperament lacked somewhat the bucolic side. It is just possible I might be ennuyé in Dorsetshire before many years had passed, just possible. So I decided ultimately for Versailles. Do you approve the choice, Miss Norman?”

“I think you did wisely to follow your individual tastes.”

“You do? Then I am happy. Well, my lease here is out at Christmas. Do you think you can arrange with Mrs. Cumberbatch to be ready by then?”

“You forget, Mr. Gresham, that you have not acquainted me with your plans regarding both of us.”

“My plans?” he returned, with an affectation of surprise. “Mais certainement — pardon me, I should say, certainly I have. Of course my house is entirely at your service, Miss Norman, whether it be situated in London or Versailles.”

Helen stood silent in extreme surprise.

“Have you any objection to living in France?” continued Mr. Gresham.

“No objection on the score of the country,” she replied. “But at present I could not think of leaving London. I need not explain my reasons, Mr. Gresham. In your eyes they are foolish enough, no doubt, but with me they outweigh every consideration.”

“Mon Dieu! Ces Anglaises!” exclaimed the artist, imitating with comical accuracy the tone and gesture of a Frenchman. “Well, to tell you the truth, Miss Norman, I was more than half prepared for this, and I had considered the contingency. Probably if I proposed it to you, you would only too gladly consent to take up your abode in one of those savoury courts or alleys which abound in the Oriental clime. But in such a course I fancy I see something scarcely becoming Miss Norman’s position. Indeed there might be some people so evil-disposed as to censure Miss Norman’s guardian under such circumstances.”

“I think it probable,” returned Helen, smiling.

“Just so. Then it remains for me to think of some suitable habitation for you. You would, of course, think it desirable that Mrs. Cumberbatch should continue to live with you?”

Helen assented out of mere politeness, though it is needless to say she would gladly have dismissed Mrs. Cumberbatch from her sight for ever.

“Again, just so. Then, may I ask, Miss Norman, whether there is any quarter of London in which you would prefer me to look for a suitable house?”

“I have only one ground of choice,” replied Helen. “It must be within easy access of the East End.”

“So I imagined,” replied her guardian, smiling sardonically. “Then you permit me to be your agent in this matter?”

“I shall feel grateful if you will undertake the trouble.”

“No trouble whatever,” replied Mr. Gresham, politely.

And so the conversation ended. When she reflected upon it, Helen could not but wonder at the easy manner in which Mr. Gresham relieved himself of the more tedious responsibilities of guardianship. It was evident that he had never seriously contemplated her accompanying him to France. There was something of refined selfishness in the whole arrangement; Helen perceived it, but it did not distress her. Indeed the prospect of living in a small house of her own was very delightful to her. Mrs. Cumberbatch was the only drawback, but she scarcely saw how it could be possible to relinquish that lady’s chaperonage. With Mrs. Cumberbatch herself, meanwhile, Mr. Gresham had held a longer and more serious conversation. The aunt and nephew understood each other wonderfully well. Mr. Gresham knew that in Mrs. Cumberbatch he had someone on whom he could thoroughly rely, as long as he made it coincident with her own interest to be trustworthy. Among his instructions to her were strong injunctions that she should do her utmost to bring Helen more into society. The sooner the latter was comfortably married out of the way, the better for Mr. Gresham’s ease, regard for which bade fair soon to monopolise the whole of that gentleman’s attention.

The visit of her guardian and his guests had furnished a brief distraction from Helen’s ordinary life; certainly no highly agreeable distraction, but still sufficient to give a momentary new current to her thoughts. The exercise of French conversation, which she had so long disused from lack of opportunity, was in itself pleasant, awakening all manner of strange bygone memories, wafting back to her, like a sweet perfume, the recollection of happier years. Then the anticipation of a pleasant change of abode at the year’s end was useful in giving her fresh matter for reflection, and averting her mind from the perpetual brooding over sad thoughts which had long since begun to set its mark upon her face in pallid cheeks and dark circles around the eyes. But these sensations were not of an enduring nature. Scarcely had the strangers left the house, when her mind renewed the thread of its every-day reflections, and continued to spin out the sorrowful web of its existence as though the task had known no interruption.

In addition to the sadness caused by the gradual annihilation of too sanguine hopes as regarded her toils among the poor, Helen had begun to suffer from causes of a more personal nature, from pain which had its beginning and end in the circumstances of her own individual being. Though she had hitherto been rather wont to pride herself on the possession of a philosophical mind which was all in all to itself, finding in her studies, her reveries, and the reflections to which her everyday work gave rise, all sufficing sources of occupation, of late a sad conviction had been working its way into her heart that these were not enough, that her being suffered a lack of nourishment, and yearned for stronger food. Sad conviction indeed it was, for to Helen’s mind it implied some loss of self-esteem, some perceptible falling away from the ideal life to which she had trained herself, some condescension to the weakness of less noble natures. The uneasy longing, which months ago had assumed no more definite shape than that of occasional depression bred of disappointment in her aims, had now grown to proportions far more formidable, and was every day assuming the character of a recognisable aspiration. She felt lonely. She knew not the sweet pleasure of possessing some true friend to whom she could impart the secret workings of her spirit, from whom she could look for quick, unfailing sympathy, and to whom in turn she could become the source of vivifying consolation. Mr. Heatherley, though in many things of great benefit to her, was not and could not be such a friend as this. Though standing on the common ground of universal charity, the impulse of each came from such entirely opposite quarters, the highest sympathies of each were so totally different in their natures, that the growth between them of anything resembling a perfect union of the spirit was never to be thought of. And yet Mr. Heatherley was the nearest friend that she possessed. All others were mere acquaintances. Living as she had always done in almost complete seclusion as far as the society of cultivated people was concerned, Helen had only once found herself in contact with a nature before which her own felt disposed to bow. Once and once only had a voice struck the chords of her heart and elicited what seemed to her like the barely perceptible prelude to a delicious harmony. It was possible she might have been mistaken; closer acquaintance might have dispelled this first illusion and rendered to her her freedom; but the chance of thus proving it had never been afforded her, for the object of her first timid heart-stirrings had suddenly vanished, and, what was more, in anger with herself. Yes; Arthur Golding’s long-cherished worship was not without its counterpart, though struggling and undeveloped, in Helen’s breast. Nor was it altogether unsuspected by its object, for Helen never forgot the circumstance of her own portrait so carefully separated, as if from less precious things, among Arthur’s drawings. And now in these days of increasing trouble, when the yearning for individual fellowship seemed to be consuming her physical powers, the noble-minded girl dwelt more frequently than ever on the recollections which Arthur’s name awakened. If the secret portraying of her face had meant anything more than a mere artist’s fancy, did the feeling which had prompted it still live in the young man’s heart? Frequently when she sat down to think of other things she found herself drifting away to thoughts of Arthur, wondering where he now lived, whether he still pursued the study of painting, whether he had changed in appearance? There had been a certain mystery in his sudden break with her guardian, the cause of which she felt convinced could not merely lie in that capricious temper to which Mr. Gresham had referred it. The knowledge she had since gained of the latter’s character induced her to believe that the fault had been more probably on his side than on that of his pupil, and the circumstance of Arthur’s relinquishing the benefit of his legacy till he could legally claim it decidedly pointed to a loftiness of spirit which would be superior to petty irritations. She would very much have liked to ask her guardian whether he knew anything of Arthur, but delicacy forba............