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 508 questions as their inquisitiveness prompted, as fast as they could speak.

“Well, do tell! I guess you’ve had a pretty narrow chance of it; there ain’t no one but Keefe Dillon could have brought you through. And what is it ails the old gentleman?

“I expect it’s the fright has overcome him. You must have had a pretty stout heart your self to have stood it so well. I guess I’d never have come through such a time alive. You do look kinder pale though. And the captain and sailors all left you, did they? Well, they hadn’t the hearts of men in them. And you saw the boat go down, did you? Well it was just what they deserved. You must have felt real bad when you saw them go off. I expect you did. And what’s your name? And where were you going to? And where did you come from?”

These were a very small number of the words crammed into Helen’s ears, but she scarcely heard them. The rude though not unfeeling gaze of the crowd, their rough language and demeanour, were unnoticed, though, at another time, she would have felt so uncongenial a scene very painful. She tried once or twice to answer their expressions of kindness gratefully, but her air of grace and refinement, her gentle reserve, and sad quietude of manner insensibly operated as a check on the wondering and inquisitive group surrounding her, and at length, to her infinite relief, they drew somewhat away, and left her in quiet. In a short time the door of the shanty was brought, Mr. Lennox was placed on it, and, assisted by two or three other men, Keefe carried him to his house, Helen walking by his side. As they were moving away from the shore, Mr. Nibbs, who had been attentively examining Helen’s dress and appearance, walked forward, and, in a stately manner, offered her his arm, but she quietly rejected it, and Keefe, who had seen the offer and refusal, smiled to himself as he watched the air of offended dignity with which Mr. Nibbs walked haughtily away.

dwelling was a large log-house with gable-ends, a wide space in front, wreathed with wild vine and clematis, a group of butternuts at one end and an orchard at the other, and at each side of the path which led up to the house were rose-bushes, now covered with half-blown buds.

They were met at the door by Keefe’s housekeeper, a tall thin woman with sharp features and sallow complexion, but with an aspect of order, neatness, and serenity, with also a grave kindness impressed on every line of her face and figure.

“Well, I thank God I see you safe, Mr. Dillon,” she said in a voice whose harsh Yankee twang was aggravated by the unusual earnestness with which she spoke. “This has been a great deliverance for you all. I guess you had best carry the stranger to his bed; it’s all ready for him. This is his daughter, I reckon. Poor gal, you’ve had a bad time of it, and no mistake; throw off that wet cloak and go to the fire, I do suppose you’re tired out,”—and she pointed to the blazing fire of logs which filled the large open fire-place; “dry your wet clothes, poor child, and leave your father to me; I’ll take care of him.”

“Thank you, but I can’t leave him,” said Helen. And throwing off her cloak and twisting her loosened tresses of hair round her head she followed Mrs. Wendell into the room prepared for her father.

In a few minutes Mr. Lennox was placed comfortably in bed, and Mrs. Wendell, whose experience had taught her some knowledge of diseases, their symptoms and treatment, such as women often possess in those remote settlements where a regular physician is not to be had, felt his pulse, examined his countenance, and shook her head.

“You think him very ill, do you?” said Helen.

“Well, he’s real weak,” said Mrs. Wendell, “but a little rest may do wonders for him.”

“Can you send for a doctor?” asked Helen.

“Well, there ain’t no doctors nearer than forty miles; no doctor ever comes here. But you needn’t feel bad about it, dear; a good sleep would be the best cure for him, I reckon; and if it is God’s will, he may get that without any doctor. But you must be real tired and hungry yourself, I guess.”

She was gone before Helen could answer, and quickly returned with bread and butter, tea, fried ham, and preserves, which she placed before Helen, pressing her to eat with earnest kindness, but finding that she could not eat, Mrs. Wendell urged her to go to bed.

“You must have rest some time or other,” she said, “and you’d best try and take it now when he can’t feel your absence; by and by, when he comes to his senses, he’d miss you more.”

But Helen declared so earnestly that she could not sleep, and so firmly that she could not leave her father for an instant, that Mrs. Wendell ceased to urge her to do so; but the good woman would not leave her till she had made her exchange her wet shoes for a pair of dry moccasins, and bathe her face and hands in cold water, which somewhat refreshed her; then placing a rocking-chair for her beside the bed, and softly repeating, ‘Even as a father pitieth his own children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him, ” she left the room. Those words had been familiar to Helen from childhood, but now they impressed her with a power which she had never felt in them before. In this hour of bitter grief, her heart fainting within her at the dread of a woe which seemed too heavy for her to bear, the sacred promise fell upon her aching heart like softest dew upon the burning earth. Falling upon her knees beside the bed, she hid her face and wept; and then a few words of earnest prayer strengthened and calmed her mind.

All day she sat beside her father, watching every restless movement, listening to every heavy breath with that sickening anguish which the sufferings of a beloved one inflict on the heart that, while it would give its own life-blood to relieve the pain it beholds, can only watch in helpless despair; struggling to keep down the agony that at times threatened to overwhelm her self-control, and calling on God for hope and courage. Mrs. Wendell sometimes came into the