room with noiseless steps and kind gentle words, brought her coffee, and even coaxed her into taking some. She did not again ask her to leave her father, for she felt that to know she had watched him in his last hours would soon be the poor girl’s only comfort.
As the day wore on the wind calmed down, the sun shone gloriously in the blue sky, and the clouds disappeared beyond the horizon. About sunset Mr. Lennox appeared somewhat easier, and Helen, believing that he slept, began to indulge a faint and trembling hope. The setting sun fronted the window of the room in which she sat, and now came streaming in through an opening in the blind, forming a shining bridge to the opposite wall, and as she watched it, thoughts filled with faith and hope, bright promises of peace and joy, seemed ascending and descending on its golden threads, like the angels in Jacob’s dream. At last it paled, faded, vanished, twilight fell, and then darkness, and still he seemed to sleep; but just as Mrs. Wendell stole in to ask if Helen would like a light, he raised himself feebly, and called her. “I am here, father, I am with you,” and she clasped his hands and kissed him.
Still he looked about him with a puzzled air, and then a look of returning memory and consciousness came into his face.
“I remember it all now,” he said, “we were saved. But it is too late for me. I am dying, my darling.”
“Oh! no, no, dear father, you are weak, but you will get better soon.”
“Never, Helen. But whose house is this—where are we—who is that person?”
Helen told him.
“Is there a clergyman here?” he asked, addressing Mrs. Wendell.
“Well, no, there is not.”
“And this brave young man, what is his name? Has he a father or mother here?”
“I guess he’s got no living kin in this country.”
A pause ensued, so long, that Helen feared he was relapsing into stupor, but at last he broke it by asking to see Keefe.
“Dear father, wait till to-morrow,” said Helen; “you will exhaust yourself by all this exertion and excitement.”
“I guess your daughter’s right,” said Mrs. Wendell; “I’ll get you a drink, and then you must try to sleep.”
“Let me see this young man first,” he answered, impatiently; “I shall have time enough to sleep afterwards.”
Summoned by Mrs. Wendell, Keefe came immediately.
“Let him come close to me,” said Mr. Lennox, “and bring the candle near that I may see his face.”
The scene was altogether a strange one, full of strong contrasts.
Keefe stood beside Helen, in his working-dress of gray homespun, the soil of his day’s labour still hanging about him; but the dignity of a clear strong mind and a brave noble heart speaking in his face. Mrs. Wendell, at the other side of the bed, held a candle that threw its light on the group, her prim and sallow visage surmounted by a starched and snow-white cap; her angular figure clad in a blue and scarlet striped woollen gown, and her keen, though not unsympathising eyes, closely and sharply watching the strangers—no one could have looked into that homely chamber, and gazed on the persons it contained, without curiosity and interest.
After a long and earnest look into Keefe’s face, Mr. Lennox said, turning his dimmed eyes from the young man’s clear and candid look to the keen shrewd face of Mrs. Wendell:
“He has a face I can trust, but he is very young, yet I feel he is true. And you, too,” he added, after examining Mrs. Wendell’s face as closely as he had scrutinised Keefe’s, “you look firm and kind. God grant that you may prove so to her.”
Then his glance rested on the pale and anxious countenance of his daughter.
“My child I my beloved! my only one! can you forgive me? I little knew the fate to which my selfish pride was bringing you.”
“Father, father, you did rightly; it is my pride and glory to be your child.”
“My darling! my darling! I must leave you alone, unprotected in this wilderness. I could almost wish we had died together.
“You will not die, my own dear father; you will get better; God will have mercy!”
“He has mercy, my child; he does all things well. Never forget that, Helen, never doubt it; cling to that faith through all things; it is an anchor which will save the soul through tempests and floods; let it go, and when trouble comes, what is to save us from sinking into the gulf of despair? That faith, that certainty, that all things work for the good of the creatures whom a God of love has called into being, has been my support through life, and on it I lean now, when the grave is opening at my feet.”
Dashing away her tears, Helen struggled for composure, that she might comfort her father.
“My darling father! do not fear for me,” she said, “I have strength, I have courage. I will show you that your lessons have not been thrown away on me. I fear nothing in the world only losing you, and God will spare me that.”
Mr. Lennox gazed upon her tenderly and sadly, then he cast an appealing look on Mrs. Wendell and Keefe.
“Look at her!” he said, “and promise me to watch over her while she is near you! Her own good sense will be her best guide, God’s protection her best safeguard; but she will want a friend while she remains here; some one to take care of her till she can return to Quebec.”
“I will do as much for her, as if she was my own daughter,” said Mrs. Wendell, fervently.
A look of satisfaction passed over the dying man’s face. He then turned his eyes on Keefe.
“You saved her life,” he said; “will you pro miss me to take care of her, till you see her safe with her friends?”
Keefe met his gaze with an earnest, steadfast look.
“All you could ask of me,” he said, “I will do, as far as man can do it.”
