Dick announced that he should go to bed early that evening, on account of this confounded headache which had been troubling him so much.  In fact, he went up early, and locked his door after him, with as much noise as he could make.  He then changed some part of his dress, so that it should be dark throughout, slipped off his boots, drew the lasso out from the bottom of the contents of his trunk, and, carrying that and his boots in his hand, opened his door softly, locked it after him, and stole down the back-stairs, so as to get out of the house unnoticed.  He went straight to the stable and saddled the mustang.  He took a rope from the stable with him, mounted his horse, and set forth in the direction of the Institute.

Mr. Bernard, as we have seen, had not been very profoundly impressed by the old Doctor’s cautions,—­enough, however, to follow out some of his hints which were not troublesome to attend to.  He laughed at the idea of carrying a loaded pistol about with him; but still it seemed only fair, as the old Doctor thought so much of the matter, to humor him about it.  As for not going about when and where he liked, for fear he might have some lurking enemy, that was a thing not to be listened to nor thought of.  There was nothing to be ashamed of or troubled about in any of his relations with the school-girls.  Elsie, no doubt, showed a kind of attraction towards him, as did perhaps some others; but he had been perfectly discreet, and no father or brother or lover had any just cause of quarrel with him.  To be sure, that dark young man at the Dudley mansion-house looked as if he were his enemy, when he had met him; but certainly there was nothing in their relations to each other, or in his own to Elsie, that would be like to stir such malice in his mind as would lead him to play any of his wild Southern tricks at his, Mr. Bernard’s, expense.  Yet he had a vague feeling that this young man was dangerous, and he had been given to understand that one of the risks he ran was from that quarter.

On this particular evening, he had a strange, unusual sense of some impending peril.  His recent interview with the Doctor, certain remarks that had been dropped in his hearing, but above all an unaccountable impression upon his spirits, all combined to fill his mind with a foreboding conviction that he was very near some overshadowing danger.  It was as the chill of the ice-mountain towards which the ship is steering under full sail.  He felt a strong impulse to see Helen Darley and talk with her.  She was in the common parlour, and, fortunately, alone.

“Helen,” he said,—­for they were almost like brother and sister now,—­“I have been thinking what you would do, if I should have to leave the school at short notice, or be taken away suddenly by any accident.”

“Do?” she said, her cheek growing paler than its natural delicate hue,—­“why, I do not know how I could possibly consent to live here, if you left us.  Since you came, my life has been almost easy; before, it was getting intolerable.  You must not talk about going, my dear friend; you have spoiled me for my place.  Who is there here that I can have any true society with, but you?  You would not leave us for another school, would you?”