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 which 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 toward 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 parlor, 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?”

“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.”