CHAPTER XXVII.

EVER since the contents of the mysterious table had been disclosed to Helen, she had had a strange wish to examine more closely the receptacle of such hidden treasure. One afternoon, instead of seeking her usual place of refuge, she turned into the garden, and walked towards the flight of steps leading to the dressing-room; she was impelled by an irresistible impulse to take this opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. The door of the bedroom communicating with the corridor was closed. The windows were wide open, and the sun was setting gloriously behind the old forest trees in the far-off distance. The view was so beautiful, that, forgetful of her immediate object, she stood admiringly at the window. There, as she stood, she saw Mrs. Mitten coming from a shrubbery that terminated near the steps. It was evident that her intention was to ascend; but before Helen had time to retreat from the window she had been seen, and so Mrs. Mitten passed on.

Helen for a few minutes was irresolute; she felt conscious and confused without any reason for being so, yet she had an instinctive apprehension of something which made her sorry that Mrs. Mitten had seen her in that room. Anxious to escape, and without even glancing at the table, she opened the door, and went out into the corridor. There, breathless from haste there, standing in the corridor, and opposite to the door, was Mrs. Mitten again. Helen started.

Mrs. Mitten looked at her most significantly. Helen said something about the beauty of the view; but she hesitated, and was confused, to which Mrs. Mitten replied—.

'Aye, and it always looks best, does not it now, just at this time, when master and missis is nodding?" and she gave one of those infernal chuckles that exasperated Helen beyond endurance.

Mrs. Mitten said no more, but passed on. Helen felt that whatever might be the consequence she could bear this position no longer. To have this woman for ever crossing her path like a spirit of evil! There she was-there she was— for ever exulting in the power she had gained-for ever on the watch to entangle her in something, but in what Helen did not know.

She had scarcely closed the door of her room, when she heard footsteps in the passage leading to it. There was a knock, and she opened. Mrs. Mitten again! glove in her hand.

She had a

"Beg pardon, miss, but this glove-I think it is yours." It was a glove which Helen had dropped in the dressingroom on that day when the secrets of the table had become revealed to her. Helen took the glove. Mrs. Mitten grinned maliciously.

"I was going to give this glove to master; but mayhap he'd wonder how such a glove came to be in his dressingroom."

"I would have explained the wonder," said Helen, almost choking with the effort of suppressed feelings, though struggling to speak in a calm voice, and assuming an air of dignity.

"Hoity! toity!" and Mrs. Mitten grinned with the expression of a fiend who has secured a victim. "Hoity! toity!" she repeated, as she closed the door with a bang, and retreated down the passage.

Helen's strong suspicions that the secrets of the table were not unknown to Mrs. Mitten were now confirmed. Yes, Mrs. Mitten had long looked upon the contents of that table as her golden harvest; but she bided her time. When she found Helen's glove in the Justice's dressing-room, and again when she saw her looking out of Mrs. Kingley's window, the thought crossed her mind-" Can she know of the table?" It was only for an instant, and never for an instant did she believe Helen capable of taking advantage

of such knowledge had she known it; but it might hereafter be of great importance to her to be able to establish the fact. And the letter!-that might be turned to account. It might tend to corroborate any case of circumstantial evidence to Helen's prejudice. Thus did Mrs. Mitten endeavour to insinuate suspicions that she knew to be groundless, and the meaning of which Helen would not have been able to understand had not she also had knowledge of the contents of that table.

Helen had an intuitive conviction that a game was playing against her, and she was fully aware of all the possible consequences. She saw clearly that the only way to extricate herself from the difficulties of her position would be to state every particular to Mr. Kingley, commencing with-no, she would not commence with that; the letter had no immediate connection with the subject. She would commence from the time when, on her return from the walk in the forest, she had entered his dressing-room with no other purpose than to pass through it, as the nearest way to her own room. For the first time, it occurred to her that she had done wrong to draw aside the green curtain—that she had done wrong to be a spy on Mrs. Kingley's actions; and then, how could she tell what she had seen?

Helen was certain that the hoarded treasure was unknown to Mr. Kingley. Would it be right to reveal the knowledge of a secret thus clandestinely obtained? Would it not be base treachery to do so? This consideration was independent of self; it originated in a sense of right. There were other considerations in which self was predominant. Were it known to Mrs. Kingley that she had discovered her secret, she should never be forgiven; the certain consequence would be expulsion from the Manor-house. But there was no time to be lost; any day, any hour, Helen felt she might be liable to imputations that she shuddered to think about. Whichever way she turned there was no

escape; and though she was sure what were Mrs. Mitten's nefarious designs, she had no proofs beyond her own internal conviction. On the contrary, appearances against herself might be construed into proofs; and then-yes, then that letter would be produced, and that would be corroborative of all. What was to be done? Was she patiently and silently to await the result? Result of what? Why was she to wait till Mrs. Mitten had committed her depredations, and when those depredations should be discovered, to have the imputation thrown on her? The thought was horrible. Then, again, what was to be done? She could not wait to watch the sword hanging over her head by a single hair; it might fall at any time. There was no safety but in flight.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"No, there is no safety but in flight!"

Helen once again retired to the solitude of her chamber, put down her light, and threw herself on a chair. She could fix on no plan. One idea alone possessed her mind. "She must go!" But where to go? She knew not. She thought of her mother and Edith; she thought of Aunt Rebecca; and, last, she thought of Miss Horton.

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Yes," she said, rising, and slowly walking up and down, "Mr. Horton will advise; and Miss Horton-so kind as she has been to Edith-why may she not be kind to me also?"

Yet how was she to leave the Manor-house? Clandestinely? That could not be; she was at once aware of what would be the consequences of that. Then what reason could consider a sufficient one

she assign that Mr. Kingley would for her departure? She almost wished that, in opposition to his wishes, she had accepted Aunt Rebecca's invitation; that

would have been the best means.

No time was to be lost;

any day the sword might fall, and then it would be too late. Again she sat down, and still she was irresolute. At length, approaching the table with the air of one who has decided, she opened her writing-desk, and addressed a letter to Miss Horton. She told her that some very particular business, which she could explain only in person, required that she should go to London. She stated the difficulty she found in being able to leave the Manor-house, and added that her purpose would be greatly facilitated if Miss Horton would please to write an invitation. This she would make the ostensible object for her absence—the real one it being impossible to communicate either to Mr. or Mrs. Kingley.

The letter was written. If it went by the early morning post she could have an answer on Thursday. And now she had decided. But her thoughts were still afloat, and she knew that it would be useless to go to bed, she was sure she could not sleep. She, therefore, commenced sundry preparations, preliminary to final packing. One trunk she meant to pack entirely, and she dragged it from the cupboard communicating with her room, which was her general depository for things not in immediate use. She had placed it on two chairs, and had proceeded some way in the operation of packing, when her light gave symptoms of departure. She had been too much occupied to notice the first signal, and almost before she was aware of it there was one grand flare and darkness. She drew aside the window-curtain, but the night was rainy and dark. Helen knew that Mrs. Mitten's candle store communicated with the still-room, and she thought it would be possible to grope her way along the passages and procure one. At any other time, she would have considered the expedition under such circumstances impossible, but in her present state of excitement she was not to be baffled by slight obstacles. She reached the door of her chamber, felt for the lock, and gently turned the handle.