The months passed quickly on. Mr. Gresham and his friends had returned from a highly delightful tour, which had embraced the finest scenery of England, Scotland and Ireland, and, after spending about a week in Portland Place, had all once more set off for Paris. By means of an agent, Mr. Gresham had already succeeded in finding a house for his ward and her protectress, Mrs. Cumberbatch. It was in the district of Highbury, and, though rather dreary-looking in the November twilight, would doubtless be a pretty place in summer time. It was one of those neat little villas of which such numbers have recently sprung up in districts immediately surrounding London, with a bow window on each side of the door, and in front a pleasant little garden, concealed from the road by high holly bushes. Owing to the latter circumstance, the villa had been christened “Holly Cottage,” which name was tastefully carved on the stone pillars at either side of the gate. It was decided that the ladies should take up their residence here about the middle of December. Mr. Gresham had graciously undertaken to come over from Paris to superintend their removal.

One Saturday evening towards the end of November, Helen Norman had again called to spend an hour with Lucy, previous to their setting out together for the chapel. She was paler and thinner than she had been even a few months before, and, owing to the persistency with which she pursued her work, even in the worst weather, had contracted a severe cold, which at times rendered her almost speechless. Mr. Heatherley had frequently pressed upon her of late the necessity of her paying more attention to her health, but as yet had succeeded in obtaining little more than promises. The truth was that Helen was bound to be active. She dreaded shutting herself up in the house alone with Mrs. Cumberbatch, or even alone with her own thoughts, for these had become the more insufferable companion of the two. To renounce her daily work would, she well knew, be equivalent to succumbing under an attack of illness. Such a prospect presented itself to her in the guise of unknown terror. To lie day after day, alone and suffering — no; rather work till she fell down in the street from mere exhaustion. The horror of such a fate would be considerably less than that of gradually wasting away in a sick room, haunted by the demon of ennui. Death, and speedy death, she felt could alone terminate such suffering as this would imply.

She had a special object in seeking Lucy’s society this after noon. During the last few days a thought had ripened within her mind which had held out to her such a cheery gleam of consolation that she could lose no time in seeking to realise its promptings. When she and Lucy had taken their seats by the fire in the cheerful little parlour, she proceeded at once t communicate the main purpose of her visit.

“In a few weeks I am going to change my home, Lucy,” she said.

Her companion looked up into her face with a startled expression.

“Indeed, Miss Norman!”

“Yes, I am going to have a little house of my own.”

“You — you are going to be married, Miss Norman!” faltered Lucy, looking a little frightened at her own boldness in suggesting such a possibility. And when she saw a smile of amused astonishment rise to Helen’s face, followed at length by one of her cheerful laughs, she reddened, and stammered excuses.

“Married!” exclaimed Helen. “What have I done, Lucy, that you should be so ready to attribute such enormities to me? There, you have done no harm, dear. Do you think I am so foolish as to be offended at any word that your lips could speak? Should you like to see me married?”

“Yes, I should,” replied Lucy, with a blush, after reflecting for a moment. “For I am sure you deserve as much happiness as it is possible for any one to have.”

“And you think that marriage is the highest possible happiness?”

“I think — perhaps — I scarcely know,” stammered Lucy, in some confusion. “But I often think that no woman can be so happy as she who has a good husband to devote her life to, never thinking of anything but how to please him, and being able to ask his advice in every difficulty or trouble. How quiet one’s life must be, when one feels there is always some one close at hand to trust in, some one who can never lead you astray, but whose advice is always for the best.”

“I am afraid there are few such husbands, Lucy. But haven’t you your father for a guide?”

“Oh, yes, I love my father,” replied Lucy, earnestly, “and have no greater pleasure than to obey him. But — but a husband must be so different ——”

She broke off and satin silence, her eyes drooping somewhat sadly. Helen suppressed a sigh, and returned to the subject she had most in her mind.

“But I was speaking of my new home,” she said. “I am going to live in a very delightful little house in Highbury. I shall not be quite by myself, for a lady I have known some time, and who is much older than myself, has kindly promised to come and keep house for me. But still I fear I shall be a little lonely through the winter. I have scarcely any friends in London, and even those I have will be a long way from me. Now I wanted to ask you, Lucy, whether you thought you could manage to come and live with me, to be a companion for me when I am at home. You cannot think how glad I should be if you could do so.”

She paused and observed Lucy’s face, the expression of which had passed from surprise to delight, and then again to surprise mingled with doubt. Such was the confusion introduced into her thoughts by this most unexpected proposition, that she was quite unable to reply at once.

“You are thinking of your father,” continued Helen. “I know I should be robbing him of his greatest comfort, but I cannot help being selfish in this matter, Lucy. You could always spend Sunday with him, and also an evening or two in the week.”

“But the house-work?” said Lucy, faltering between her delight at the proposal and the difficulties which stood in its way. “I am often afraid that father is not very comfortable as it is, for I have only the evenings and about an hour every morning to give to keeping our rooms in order. We have a girl in now and then to do rough work, but she couldn’t get father’s meals and keep his rooms neat.”

“But suppose you found some better kind of servant to do that work?”

“I am afraid we are too poor for that,” replied Lucy, simply.

“But if I took you away,” replied Helen, “it would be only fair that I should provide some one in your place. So that we needn’t trouble any more about that. Would you be willing to come to me, Lucy, if your father gave his consent?”

“It would make me very happy,” replied the girl, sincerity speaking in her tone and look.

“Not more so than it would make me,” said Helen, who really felt that with this single, child-hearted girl beside her she would be able to set at defiance the melancholy which so oppressed her. “You will see my library, then — more books than you ever saw in your life, Lucy. And we will read together; and I will teach you to like the things that I like, and will teach you foreign languages. Won’t it be delightful?”

“Oh, it is too good to be true,” said Lucy, covering her face with her hands. Helen, too, became silent, but in happy visions of the delight she would find in training this pure intelligence and seeing that sweet character expand in her presence. Another thought there was in her mind, a thought which had not been quite without its influence in determining her to this step. Bent, as always, on the good of others, Helen had reflected that, if Lucy lived with her, Mr. Heatherley would have his attention more attracted to the girl’s virtues; she would be able to talk more to him about her, and so to assist in some measure to render the termination of Lucy’s secret love happier than at present seemed possible.

As they sat thus in silence only two sounds were audible in the room; the one was the crackling of the fire, the other was the unceasing tread of a footstep pacing backwards and forwards in the room above their heads. To the latter sound Helen’s attention had already been once or twice directed, but now that it became still more observable she could not help wondering who it was that paced thus perpetually. She broke silence by asking the question.

“Oh,” replied Lucy, looking up from her happy reverie, “that is Mr. Golding, a lodger we have in our spare room. He nearly always spends his evenings in walking up and down his room.”

“What did you say his name is?” asked Helen, with an interest in her tone which surprised Lucy.

“Mr. Golding,” she replied. “He is a printer. He has only just recovered from a bad illness, and I am afraid he is not quite well yet.”

“He is a printer, you say?” continued Helen. “Do you know what his Christian name is, Lucy?”

Lucy looked up in some surprise.

“I really forget,” she said; “but I can — oh, I remember; his name in the rent book is A. Golding. I don’t know what A. stands for.”

“He is a young man?”

“Yes, quite young.”

“And — rather handsome, Lucy?”

“I think so,” replied Lucy, smiling; “but his face is very pale, and he always looks sad. Whenever I see him I feel to pity him. I suppose it is his illness that makes him look so.”

Helen’s eyes had been fixed immutably on her companion’s face since the latter had pronounced the lodger’s name, and their expression had something in it of strange pleasure which added to Lucy’s surprise. As she spoke of his illness, this expression changed to one of sympathy, and this continued now for several minutes, whilst neither spoke. Helen was gazing into the fire, and evidently listening to the footfall overhead.

“How long has he been here, Lucy?” she asked at length, speaking in a lower tone.

“About a fortnight,” was the reply; and then she added, seeing Helen still much interested — “He was recommended to us by a friend of ours who comes to see father now and then, Mr. Noble. Once, a long time ago, Mr. Noble brought him here on a Sunday night, and he had tea with us. He’s very pleasant whenever he does speak, but that’s very seldom. Once or twice we have asked him to come down and sit with us in the evening, but he has only consented once. Hush! he is coming down stairs. I heard his door open.”

“I must see him, Lucy,” whispered Helen, rising from her seat. “How can I see him and not be noticed? Stop, if I hear his voice it will be enough. Could you go out and speak to him? About anything. He is coming down stairs.”

In the utmost astonishment, but eager to do anything to oblige Miss Norman, Lucy quickly left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her, and, standing just outside it, she addressed to the lodger some question concerning his meals, which, in the morning and evening, she always prepared for him. Helen had stolen up close to the door, and heard distinctly the questions and replies. As soon as the lodger spoke she recognised Arthur’s voice.

He went on and out of the house, and Helen, trembling in every limb, sank into the nearest chair. At first she felt angry with herself for her weakness, but the next moment a warm glow of pleasure had rushed over her whole body, driving away every other feeling. Then Lucy reentered the room, and Helen, with a low laugh of joy, folded her in her arms and kissed her on the forehead. Lucy’s face flushed with delight, but her eyes still retained their expression of astonishment. She feared, however, to make any remark, and resumed her seat in silence by the fire-side.

“It is as I thought,” said Helen, speaking still in a very low voice, and fixing her eyes, which glowed with unusual brightness, upon her companion’s wondering face; “I once knew Mr. Golding. Lucy, you say he passes the evening with you and your father sometimes?”

She replied in the affirmative.

“Do you think my name has ever been mentioned in his presence?”

“Yes, it has,” replied Lucy. “Mr. Heatherley came in last Wednesday night, when Mr. Golding was with us, and he asked me if I did not think you looked very poorly, Miss Norman. And then he spoke for some minutes about your untiring patience.”

“And Mr. Golding?” asked Helen, bending forward and taking Lucy’s hand. “He said nothing?”

“I — I think not,” returned the other, fearful lest her answer should displease.

There was silence for some minutes, during which Helen still held Lucy’s hand, playing with it now and then whilst varied emotions made themselves seen upon her features.

“What must you think of me, Lucy?” she asked at length. “No doubt you are quite at a loss to understand my strange behaviour. The truth is that Mr. Golding is an old acquaintance, in whom I have much interest. I have not seen him for more than a year, and had no idea where he was, so you may imagine my surprise when I heard you call your lodger by his name. Would you do me a kindness, something very difficult for me to do for myself, but easy for you to do for me?”

“I will do anything in my power for you, Miss Norman.”

“Then it is this. When next you have an opportunity of speaking to him alone will you say, as if by chance, that I had heard of him from you, that I had recognised him as an acquaintance, and had made friendly inquiries with regard to him — all this, you know, as if coming naturally from yourself? — I wish him to know, in short, that I am aware of his being here. And I should like to know how he hears this, Lucy, with what expression of face, or what reply he makes. Are you artful enough to practise all this deceit, dear?”

“I think it will be a very harmless deceit,” replied Lucy, with her customary na?veté. “I can easily find an opportunity to do this. Very likely I shall be able to bring you word next Tuesday night at the class.”

“And you — you will not say anything of this to your father, Lucy? It is only a foolish fancy. I can trust you, but others, who do not know me so well, might — you know what I mean.”

“Indeed, I will tell no one,” replied Lucy earnestly, truth beaming from her wide blue eyes.

Helen smiled gratefully, and, drawing the girl towards her, pressed an affectionate kiss upon her lips.

On the following Tuesday night Helen was in the schoolroom rather earlier than usual. She had come in the hope of having a quarter of an hour’s talk with Lucy before the lessons commenced, but in this she was disappointed, for Lucy, who usually made her appearance some time before eight o’clock, was late to-night. Helen’s cold had increased severity during the last few days, and to-night she was scarcely able to speak. Prudence had urged her throughout the day to send a note to Mr. Heatherley, begging him to take her place that evening, but the temptation of the ............