CHAPTER XXV.

HELEN MEANS AND MYSELF.

DURING my absence, Deacon Webber had grown so ugly and miserly that even his own children, such perfect chips of the old block, could not live with him. He now occupied his house alone. I met him, one day, on my way to the village, and I was surprised to see the change which one year had wrought. His form was bent, and his clothes ragged and filthy. He had not cut his gray, stiff beard for months. With his malignant eyes, hollow cheeks, wrinkled forehead, swarthy skin, and long, gray beard, half covering his thin, dry lips, his uncombed hair, and the filth and dirt which clung to his ragged garments, hands and face, he was a horrible sight to look upon. Though his appearance was disgusting in the extreme, I could but pity the poor wretch. As much as I had hated him, as much as I now despised him, he had fallen so low that I did not wish to harm a hair of his head. He had become a general object of loathing, and I would sooner have done him a kindness than to have inflicted an injury.

He recognized me, and a fiend could not have gathered more of hatred and malignity in his countenance. His brow darkened, his eyes gleamed with the fiercest fires of brutal revenge, and his lips seemed ready to spit out venom and spite. Unmoved, except with disgust, I passed by him; but I could hear him grind his teeth and growl for some time after I had left him. He looked as though he would be glad to spring upon me, and, like a wild beast, tear me limb from limb. And this was the pious, praying deacon; the "burning and shining light." This was the man who had so often doomed his fellowcreatures to inconceivable torments; and now what a doom was his! All the time he was professing godliness he was a pharisaical hypocrite, and it had given him the heart of a devil; and he who has such a heart is in the lowest hell, whether in this world or another.

The deacon's whole object now was to accumulate property. Gold was his god, and all his vows were paid at its altar. He lent money, took mortgages of lands and buildings, and, as his creditors often failed to redeem them, his property rapidly increased. He sold for ready money nearly every article of household furniture, beds, and bedding, and then lived more like a brute than a He afterwards rented the house, all but one room. His children continued to show him the respect which is due from a child to a parent, not from love, but that they might inherit his fortune. A number of excuses

man.

were given for leaving him, but the true one was kept out of sight.

In September I again visited my uncle. I was received with that familiarity and kindness which parents bestow upon children. They had always treated me like a child. The only reception which seemed at all cold was from my uncle, on my first return from New York. Some days then passed away before I could feel as easy in his company as formerly. There was no change in my aunt; and now she expressed much anxiety in relation to my health, and begged me to stay and let her doctor me, until I should get rid of that pale, languid look, and bring back the color and sprightliness which I once possessed. I required but little urging to comply, for I could dwell in the presence of one whose attractive loveliness increased with every hour. To be near her was now my greatest happiness. By her side I could sit for hours, though not one word was spoken. To catch one glance of her beautiful eyes, or feel the touch of her hand, which thrilled my whole being, was a pleasure which I sought elsewhere in vain. So intense and allabsorbing was my love, that I could have died for her; but to live without her was worse than dying.

In spite of my aunt's motherly care and nursing, my health, instead of improving, was every day growing more precarious. In vain she prepared me strengthening syrups, and labored with a mother's care and anxiety to

bring back my lost health and spirits. In the presence of Helen there were moments of intense happiness; but every moment only made me so much the more anxious to press her to my heart, and hear her whisper the dear words, "I am thine!" She engaged all my thoughts, all my wishes, and all my hopes; and yet I was debarred the privilege of asking her to crown my long and ardent devotion with her love. I knew not what to do, and sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts against her who was dearer to me than my own life. Helen seemed to grow restless and uneasy, and I often caught her eyes fixed earnestly upon me. But those eyes had before deceived me, or I was unable to read their language; and how could I hope to understand them now? My uncle, too, often regarded me with an inquiring and troubled look.

After two or three weeks of miserable doubt and suspense, the most bitter thoughts began to rankle in my heart, and the result was that Helen's society, in a measure, lost its charm. She noticed it, and, as I thought, tried to throw around me a witchery that I could not resist. I thought she must be a coquette, and kept aloof from her as much as possible. When in her society, I was moody and silent. I resolved to return home. I named the day, but, in accordance with my uncle's wishes, postponed the time one week; but I resolved that Helen should not profit by it, for I would

absent myself from her as much as I could conveniently, and when with her talk as little as possible. The consequences were that I was all repulsion, and she all attraction. An almost irresistible charm hung around her, and it was with extreme difficulty that I could overcome its power. She sometimes seemed as though she would be glad to open her heart, and tell me all its desires and hopes; but I repelled her with all the strength I could muster. Surely," thought I, "she is a com

plete coquette."

I often reflected upon the utter impossibility of Helen Means being a coquette; but how else could I account for her present conduct?

My last week of probation had nearly expired. In two days more I should return home, and remain until the marriage of Thomas and Lizzie, which would take place the next month; and then I would go I knew not and cared not whither. To get away from myself would be my greatest desire. O, it is a sad thing for the young heart to be so overburdened that it would gladly escape from its own thoughts, and forget its own identity! Many a one flies from home, friends, and from all that's dear, from every object loved, around which memory clings, as the startled fawn flies from the hunter and the hound. He goes out into the great wilderness-world, not to find joy, peace or happiness, but that he may leave the pangs of disappointment and broken hopes far, far behind, or drown them in excitement, and charm