“No, no, my dear Helen,” Mr. Bernard said; “if it depends on myself, I shall stay out my full time, and enjoy your company and friendship.  But everything is uncertain in this world; I have been thinking that I might be wanted elsewhere, and called when I did not think of it;—­it was a fancy, perhaps,—­but I can’t keep it out of my mind this evening.  If any of my fancies should come true, Helen, there are two or three messages I want to leave with you.  I have marked a book or two with a cross in pencil on the fly-leaf;—­these are for you.  There is a little hymn-book I should like to have you give to Elsie from me;—­it may be a kind of comfort to the poor girl.”

Helen’s eyes glistened as she interrupted him,—­

“What do you mean?  You must not talk so, Mr. Langdon.  Why, you never looked better in your life.  Tell me now, you are not in earnest, are you, but only trying a little sentiment on me?”

Mr. Bernard smiled, but rather sadly.

“About half in earnest,” he said.  “I have had some fancies in my head,—­superstitions, I suppose,—­at any rate, it does no harm to tell you what I should like to have done, if anything should happen,—­very likely nothing ever will.  Send the rest of the books home, if you please, and write a letter to my mother.  And, Helen, you will find one small volume in my desk enveloped and directed, you will see to whom;—­give this with your own hands; it is a keepsake.”

The tears gathered in her eyes; she could not speak at first.  Presently,—­

“Why, Bernard, my dear friend, my brother, it cannot be that you are in danger?  Tell me what it is, and, if I can share it with you, or counsel you in any way, it will only be paying back the great debt I owe you.  No, no,—­it can’t be true,—­you are tired and worried, and your spirits have got depressed.  I know what that is;—­I was sure, one winter, that I should die before spring; but I lived to see the dandelions and buttercups go to seed.  Come, tell me it was nothing but your imagination.”

She felt a tear upon her cheek, but would not turn her face away from him; it was the tear of a sister.

“I am really in earnest, Helen,” he said.  “I don’t know that there is the least reason in the world for these fancies.  If they all go off and nothing comes of them, you may laugh at me, if you like.  But if there should be any occasion, remember my requests.  You don’t believe in presentiments, do you?”

“Oh, don’t ask me, I beg you,” Helen answered.  “I have had a good many frights for every one real misfortune I have suffered.  Sometimes I have thought I was warned beforehand of coming trouble, just as many people are of changes in the weather, by some unaccountable feeling,—­but not often, and I don’t like to talk about such things.  I wouldn’t think about these fancies of yours.  I don’t believe you have exercised enough;—­don’t you think it’s confinement in the school has made you nervous?”