The old Doctor looked at Silas through his spectacles.

“Hard and sour as a green cider-apple,” he thought to himself.  “No,”; he said,—­“I don’t know any such cases.”

“What’s the matter with Elsie Venner?” asked Silas, sharply, as if he expected to have him this time.

“A mild feverish attack, I should call it in anybody else; but she has a peculiar constitution, and I never feel so safe about her as I should about most people.”

“Anything ketchin’ about it?” Silas asked, cunningly.

“No, indeed!” said the Doctor,—­“catching? no,—­what put that into your head, Mr. Peckham?”

“Well, Doctor,” the conscientious Principal answered, “I naterally feel a graat responsibility, a very graaat responsibility, for the noomerous and lovely young ladies committed to my charge.  It has been a question, whether one of my assistants should go, accordin’ to request, to stop with Miss Venner for a season.  Nothin’ restrains my givin’ my full and free consent to her goin’ but the fear lest contagious maladies should be introdooced among those lovely female youth.  I shall abide by your opinion,—­I understan’ you to say distinc’ly, her complaint is not ketchin’?—­and urge upon Miss Darley to fulfil her dooties to a sufferin’ fellow-creature at any cost to myself and my establishment.  We shall miss her very much; but it is a good cause, and she shall go,—­and I shall trust that Providence will enable us to spare her without permanent demage to the interests of the Institootion.”

Saying this, the excellent Principal departed, with his rusty narrow-brimmed hat leaning over, as if it had a six-knot breeze abeam, and its gunwale (so to speak) was dipping into his coat-collar.  He announced the result of his inquiries to Helen, who had received a brief note in the mean time from a poor relation of Elsie’s mother, then at the mansion-house, informing her of the critical situation of Elsie and of her urgent desire that Helen should be with her.  She could not hesitate.  She blushed as she thought of the comments that might be made; but what were such considerations in a matter of life and death?  She could not stop to make terms with Silas Peckham.  She must go.  He might fleece her, if he would; she would not complain,—­not even to Bernard, who, she knew, would bring the Principal to terms, if she gave the least hint of his intended extortions.

So Helen made up her bundle of clothes to be sent after her, took a book or two with her to help her pass the time, and departed for the Dudley mansion.  It was with a great inward effort that she undertook the sisterly task which was thus forced upon her.  She had a kind of terror of Elsie; and the thought of having charge of her, of being alone with her, of coming under the full influence of those diamond eyes,—­if, indeed, their light were not dimmed by suffering and weariness,—­was one she shrank from.  But what could she do?  It might be a turning-point in the life of the poor girl; and she must overcome all her fears, all her repugnance, and go to her rescue.