We are apt to look to the Old World exclusively for startling contrasts between fashion and splendor on the one hand, and squalid wretchedness and crime on the other. With an air of complacency, we speak of our great and happy republic, as affording a retreat for the homeless, and a refuge for the oppressed. Yet, in the face of all this, it would be difficult to find in any European city a more thoroughly vicious district than that of the Five Points in New York. Few, doubtless, of the fashionable crowds who daily promenade Broadway, have ever penetrated its recesses,—few but would shrink in dismay from horrors of which they had not even dreamed, if they should do so. But it is not our purpose to moralize upon that which has already begun to attract the attention, and inspire the exertions, of philanthropic hearts and hands. That task we leave to abler pens. Enough that we have hinted at the character of the locality in which our story takes its rise.

One of the worst recesses of this notorious district enjoys the singularly euphonious name of “Cow Bay.” The entrance to it is a filthy arched passage-way, round which are crowded miserable tenements; so miserable, that the scanty sunlight, which finds its way through the dirt-begrimed windows, seems to shrink away, as if it were more than half ashamed of the company it is in. In front of these houses, you may see men whose faces betray no evidence of intelligence or virtue; women whose miserable and woe-begone expression, perchance loud voice and angry vituperation, attest that from them all that renders the sex attractive has for ever departed; children—and this is the saddest sight of all—dirty and sickly, and who are children only in size and in years; for upon their hearts the happy influences of genuine childhood have never fallen. For them, alas! life is a rough pathway, paved with flinty stones, which pierce their feet at every step.

A tall man, with a shambling gait, and hat drawn over his eyes, walked swiftly through the arched passage-way above alluded to, and, muttering an imprecation upon a child who got in his way, entered one of the houses, whose front door stood invitingly open, and, groping his way up the staircase, which was quite obscure, although it was mid-day, opened a door at the head of the staircase, and entered.

It was such a room as the appearance of the house might lead one to expect. It was, however, furnished more ambitiously; as at least one-half the floor was covered with a rag carpet, and the scanty furniture was arranged with rather more taste than might have been anticipated. By the window sat a girl of twelve, sewing. Between her and the children who were playing outside there was a wide contrast. She was perfectly clean and neat in her attire; and her face, though pale,—as it might well be, shut up as she was in a noisome quarter of a great city, with no chance to breathe the fresh country air, or roam at will through green fields,—was unusually winning and attractive.

The man we have referred to threw himself with an air of weariness on a chair near the door, and muttered ungraciously,—

“Why haven’t you got dinner ready? I’m hungry.”

“Is it time?” asked the child, springing from her seat quickly, as if afraid of having neglected her duty.

“Time enough,” returned the man; “for I’ve been at work this morning, and have got an appetite like a wolf. Besides, I want you to be through soon; for I shall send you out shopping this afternoon. Has any one been in to see me this forenoon, Helen?”

“No,” said Helen (for that was her name).

“Good. I don’t care to have visitors.”

Helen quickly brought out, from a closet hard by, a plate of cold meat, some cold vegetables, and a plate of bread and butter. The man drew his chair to the table, and during the next quarter of an hour, in which he was so busily occupied with satisfying his appetite that he had no time for any thing else, said not a word to the child, who, on her part, was too much accustomed to his manner to utter a word.

At length, having accomplished his task in a manner so satisfactory that very little remained on the table, he drew his chair away, and motioned the child to take her place at it.

“Take your place and eat, Helen,” said he, a little less gruffly than before; “and, while you are eating, I will tell you of a little plan I have formed for you.”

“How do you like living here?” he resumed when she had seated herself.

She looked into his face, as if to know whether it would do to express her real opinion. His face was not so forbidding as it appeared at times, and she ventured to say,—

“I—I think there are some places which I should like better.”

“No doubt, no doubt, Helen. I think I have known pleasanter places myself. But where do you think you should like to live best; that is, supposing you could live wherever you chose?”

“Oh!” said the child, her eyes brightening, and her whole face glowing with excitement, “I should like, above all things, to live in the country, where I could run about the fields, and hear the birds sing, and—and? Oh! the country is so beautiful! I think I lived there once,—did I not, uncle?”

“Yes, Helen; but it is a good while ago. How would you like to live there once more?”

“May I? Can I? Will you let me?” asked the child, eagerly.

“Perhaps so. But it will depend on whether you will be good, and try to please me.”

“Oh! I will do whatever you say.”

“Well, that sounds well. Then I’ll tell you what my plans are, and where it is that you are to go.”

So saying, he drew from his pocket a copy of the “New York Tribune,” and read aloud the following advertisement:—

“There,” said the reader, laying down his paper, “is a situation which will just suit you. You like children; and pretty much all you will have to do will be to attend to them. Then Mr. Gregory lives in a beautiful place. He is a rich man, and can afford it. Would you like to go?”

“Above all things,” said Helen, eagerly (for to her the prospect of a release from the dismal place in which she lived was most pleasing).

“And you wouldn’t miss me, your affectionate uncle?” said the man, with a peculiar expression.

The child’s eyes fell. She blamed herself frequently for not holding in higher regard the only relative of whom she knew any thing: yet so ungenial was his nature, and so harsh and forbidding was he nearly always, that it would have been singular if he had inspired affection in any one. So it happened, that, in the joy of the anticipated change, she had not for a moment thought of the separation which it must occasion between herself and her uncle.

“Of course,” she said, timidly, “I shall be sorry to leave you”——

“You needn’t say any thing more, child,” was the reply. “I don’t profess any particular affection for you, and I don’t believe you feel any for me; and you may be sure I shouldn’t have proposed this removal to you if I had not some object of my own in it. Would you like to know what that is?”

“Yes,” she said, hesitatingly.

“Well, I will tell you; because it is necessary that you should fully understand, before you go, on what conditions I allow you to do so. But, if you dare to impart to a breathing soul a hint of what I tell you, I will seek you out, and—well, no matter,” he continued, seeing that his threat made her turn pale. “You must know that this Mr. Gregory, with whom I am going to place you, once cheated me out of a large sum of money, which I cannot hope to regain, except by stratagem. Now, I want you to get in there, and I will then give you instructions how to manage. They keep a large amount of valuable plate in the lower part of the house. It will be comparatively easy for you, when you are once there, to render me essential service by opening the front door to me, so that I may be able to secure it without detection; and then”——

“But,” said the girl, shrinking in dismay from this proposition, “would not that be robbery?”

“Robbery? Pooh, child! Didn’t I tell you that he had cheated me out of twice the value of the plate? And, as I can’t get my pay in any other way, it’s perfectly proper to get it in that.”

Helen was no casuist. She had never had any one to teach her right principles; but she had an instinctive feeling that this was wrong. She wished to remonstrate, but dared not. Her uncle saw her embarrassment, and guessed its cause. He rose from his seat, and stood sternly confronting her.

“Helen Armstrong,” said he, in a compressed voice, “unless you promise me faithfully to perform the part I have assigned you, I will bind you out to Brady Tim, the grocer.”

This Brady Tim was a repulsive character, and kept a grocery of the lowest kind nearly opposite the rooms occupied by the girl and her uncle. He was a complete tyrant, and would often beat his children in the most unmerciful manner. Their shrieks, which she was often doomed to hear, would always make her blood run cold, and inspired her with an inconceivable dread of the man who occasioned them. This her uncle well understood; and he was well aware that no threat which he could utter would make so deep an impression upon the child’s mind.

“You have your choice,” said he. “Shall I tell Brady Tim that you will come to-morrow morning? or will you go to Mr. Gregory’s?”

“I will go,” said the child, overawed.

“And you will follow my directions?”

“Yes.”

“Then preparations must instantly be made. I shall have to buy you a few things to have you go looking decently. Have you got a good bonnet?”

“Only my old one, and that is bent every way.”

“Well, I will get you a new one. You will also want a shawl and some gloves. As you are to be a companion to the children, it will be a recommendation if you go looking neat and comfortable. It won’t take long to purchase them; and whatever else you need I can send you afterwards. Wait a moment, and I will be ready to accompany you.”

He went into the inner room, and quickly emerged, completely metamorphosed in his personal appearance by a white wig and whiskers, and a staff, on which he leaned heavily. The girl looked at him in astonishment.

“What sort of a grandfather do you think I shall make?” said he, laughing. “I shall go out with you to Mr. Gregory’s; and I have no doubt, that, in consideration of my gray hairs, they will be induced to take my grand-daughter into their service.”

So saying, he left the room, accompanied by the child, who had improved the interval in smoothing her hair, over which she placed an ugly straw bonnet, which, however, was shortly to be displaced by one of a prettier pattern. Their purchases completed, they stepped into an omnibus, which would convey them within half a mile of Mr. Gregory’s.

II.

A few miles distant from the city was a tasteful brown cottage, having a piazza on all sides, and surrounded by a carefully trained hedge. This was the summer retreat of P. H. Gregory, a New York merchant.

It was a warm day in June. Two children, a boy and girl, respectively of six and eight years, were playing in the yard, when they espied through the hedge an old man, with hair and whiskers white as the driven snow, accompanied by a young girl, toiling, apparently with great difficulty, towards the house, notwithstanding the assistance he derived from a stout cane, on which he leaned heavily.

Attracted by the sight, they ran into the house, calling on their mother to look out and see. She had scarcely done so, when, to her surprise, she found that the pair had entered the gate, and were coming towards the house.

“Is Mrs. Gregory within?” asked the old man of the servant who answered the bell.

Mrs. Gregory anticipated the reply by coming forward.

“Poor old man!” said she, compassionately (for the attire which Armstrong had donned for the occasion was singularly threadbare, and evinced the lowest depth of destitution),—“poor old man! what can I do for you?”

“I have brought my grand-daughter with me, good lady,” said the old man, feebly, “in answer to your advertisement. She’s a good girl, and I wish I could keep her with me; but the times are hard, and it costs a sight to live; and so I’ve been thinking the best thing I could do is to get her a good place, and a good mistress, as I am sure you would be to her, madam.”

Mrs. Gregory’s sympathies were enlisted in the child’s favor by this artful address, as well as by her own modest and downcast look. She was not aware, however, that not a little of her confusion arose from the dissimulation in which she was compelled to take a part.

“What is your grand-daughter’s name?” asked Mrs. Gregory. “She seems young.”

“She is only twelve; but she’s capable,—very capable. When her poor grandmother was sick for nearly a year before she died,”—and Armstrong wiped his eyes with his ragged sleeve at the sorrowful thought,—“Helen took the whole care of her and of me; and no one could find a better nurse.”

“It must have been a great care to you, Helen,” said Mrs. Gregory, kindly.

Helen had been so much taken aback by the last fabrication respecting a grandmother of whom she had never heard, that she was barely able to say, in a low voice,—

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you will never regret it, my child,” said the lady. “God will not fail to reward good children. So your name is Helen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I like the name. I had a child of that name once. Were she living, she would be about your age. But”—and the lady sighed deeply—“she disappeared one day, and we never could find any trace of her.”

Had Mrs. Gregory been an attentive observer, she would have seen a gleam of intelligence pass over the old man’s face at this moment; but she was too much absorbed by her sad thoughts.

“I think,” said she, after a pause, “that I will engage you, Helen, although you are rather young for my purpose. When can you come?”

“She is ready now,” said her grandfather. “I can send her the rest of her clothes.”

“Very well. Then you may come in, and take off your things.”

“Come, Helen, and give a parting kiss to your poor old grandfather. He will be very lonely without you, my dear child; but he knows that he has left you with a kind lady, who will care for you.”

Helen advanced to her grandfather’s embrace with very little alacrity. As he pressed his lips lightly to her cheek, he whispered, so that she only could hear,—

“Keep your eyes open;” and then added aloud, “Be a good girl, Helen, and mind the kind lady who has engaged you, in all respects. Remember all the lessons I have taught you; and do not forget,” he continued, with a meaning look, “what I told you before I came away.”

Helen replied faintly in the affirmative. Mrs. Gregory attributed her evident embarrassment to the fact that she was about to leave her only relative to go among strangers; and she resolved in her heart to lighten, as well as she might, the sorrow of the child.

“I will bring your clothes to-morrow, my dear grand-daughter,” said Armstrong, as he rose slowly from his chair, and, resuming his cane, walked feebly from the house.

As soon, however, as he was fully out of sight, he straightened his bowed form, and walked rapidly onward till overtaken by a passing omnibus, which he entered, and was soon carried back to the city.

III.

Helen was not long in making the acquaintance of Ellen and Frank Gregory, the children of her employer, over whom she was expected thenceforth to have oversight.

Those who have always lived in the country, or to whom frequent visits have made it familiar, can hardly appreciate the depth of enjoyment which it brought to a child, who, like Helen, had been confined for years in the most noisome portion of a great city. To her, the most common objects seemed invested with an interest altogether new; and she plucked with as much eagerness the dandelions and buttercups which covered the greensward in profusion as if they had been the rarest exotics. There is a freemasonry in children which does away with formal introductions and the barriers of etiquette. When, two hours after her companion’s departure, Helen and the children came bounding in, flushed with exercise, Mrs. Gregory had an opportunity to observe—what before had escaped her notice—that Helen was more than ordinarily pretty. Something there was in her expression that seemed to strike the chords of memory; but Mrs. Gregory dismissed it as only a chance resemblance.

“Helen,” said she, calling the child to her side, “have you always lived in the city?”

“For a long time, madam. I cannot remember ever to have lived anywhere else.”

“And do you like it as well as the country?”

“I do not like it at all,—it is so dark and dirty and close. The sun does not shine there as it does here; and I could not run out into the fields, but all day long I had to sit alone.”

“Alone? Wasn’t your grandfather with you?”

“Yes,” said Helen, casting down her eyes. “He would come home to meals; but he had to attend to his business.”

“He seems too old and infirm to be able to do much,” said Mrs. Gregory, compassionately.

Helen was about to disclaim the age and infirmity, when the thought of the near relation in which Armstrong stood to her came over her mind in time, and she only answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

“How long since your grandmother died?”

This, too, was an embarrassing question for Helen; but the necessity of saying something prompted her to reply, “A good while.”

Perceiving, though she could not conjecture why, that her questions confused Helen, Mrs. Gregory desisted.

It was about four o’clock on the succeeding afternoon that Mrs. Gregory, who was sitting at the window, detected the bent form of the assumed old man slowly making his way up the hill.

“Your grandfather is coming,” said she to Helen, who sat beside her.

Helen tried to look as joyful as the approach of her only relative might be expected to make her; but the thought of the deception which she was even then practising towards a family who were showing her great kindness, and the still greater wrong which she was required to do them, made it a difficult task for one no better versed in dissimulation.

Mrs. Gregory noticed it no further than to form the opinion that she was a little odd in her manners.

As Helen expected, Armstrong requested her to walk a little apart with him; and then, dropping at once the whining tone he had assumed, inquired, quickly and peremptorily,—

“Well, what have you discovered?”

“Nothing,” said Helen, timidly, and as if deprecating his anger.

“Nothing?” he echoed, his eyes lighting with indignation. “What am I to understand by that?

“Come, child,” said he, softening his tone, as he saw that she was terrified by his roughness, “I don’t mean you any harm; but the fact is, I have placed you here to help me, and help me you must, otherwise I shall be compelled to carry you back to live with me in New York. Perhaps you would like to go?”

“Oh, no, no!” said Helen. “Don’t carry me back! Let me stay here!”

“Well, so I will, if you behave well. Now, tell me truly, have you no idea where they keep the silver? I know they have a large quantity of it.”

Helen reluctantly admitted, that, although she did not know, she could form an idea.

“Where?” asked Armstrong, eagerly.

“In the pantry, at the west corner of the house.”

“Humph! And do they lock the door at night?”

“Yes; but the key remains in the lock.”

“So far, so good. Does any one sleep in the lower part of the house?”

“No one.”

“Better still.”

A moment afterwards, Armstrong added, a new thought striking him,—

“I have not seen any dog near the house. Do they keep any?”

“No.”

“That is lucky. A determined dog is sometimes a troublesome customer. I recollect, one night, Dick Hargrave and I had planned a little expedition of this kind, when it was all broken up by a cursed bull-dog, who rushed out upon us as if he would tear us to pieces; and, to tell the truth, he did tear Dick’s coat off his back.”

Helen listened in dismay; for it revealed to her what she had not known,—that her uncle had been implicated in affairs of a similar kind before. It will be remembered that Armstrong, in proposing to her to co-operate with him, had used the pretext that Mr. Gregory had cheated him, and that he was resolved to repay himself. This, Helen had believed at the time; but his present unguarded remarks led her to entertain strong doubts of its truth. Her strong natural dislike for the duplicity and treachery required at her hands determined her, in spite of her habitual timidity and fear of her companion, to venture a remonstrance. This, however, she delayed till he should make a specific demand upon her.

He resumed: “I don’t know but there’s a pretty good chance of success. To-night is Tuesday night. I can’t very well get ready before Friday. On that night, you must contrive, in some manner,—taking care to incur no suspicion,—to come down stairs and unlock the front door. I shall be on hand at one o’clock. Be very particular about the time; for what I do must be done quickly.”

“But, uncle, wouldn’t that be robbery?”

“Robbery! Didn’t I tell you that old Gregory had cheated me out of more than the sum I shall take?”

“But they have treated me kindly; and it makes me feel ashamed to know that I am trying to injure them, uncle”——

“Don’t call me uncle again! I’m no uncle of yours,” said Armstrong, roughly. Noticing the child’s look of surprise, he added, “There, the murder is out! I had intended to treat you as a niece; but you don’t deserve it. It is time to talk to you in a different strain. I declare to you, Helen, that, unless you comply with my command, I will make you repent it most bitterly. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” said Helen, terrified no less by his looks than his words.

“Then take care that you remember: Friday night, at one. And now, as we understand each other, that is all that is necessary.”

They returned to the house in silence. Armstrong, with a hypocritical whine, thanked Mrs. Gregory for her kindness to his dear grand-daughter, who, he was glad to find, seemed so contented and happy in her new position.

“You will pardon an old man’s tears,” said he, drawing his hand across his eyes; “but she is all that is left to me now.”

“What a good old man!” thought Mrs. Gregory, as she hastened to assure him that whatever she could do to add to the comfort of his grand-daughter would cheerfully be done.

As for Helen, she was astonished and confused at what she had discovered. She had always been led to believe that Armstrong was her uncle, and had more than once reproached herself for the dislike she could not help entertaining for him. Now he had himself disclaimed the relationship; and Helen was left to conjecture fruitlessly who and what she was.

IV.

We must carry the reader back some nine or ten years. In front of a pleasant country residence, a child of three years sat on the grass, plucking the flowers that grew at her feet, and then tossing them from her. Ever and anon she would utter a cry of childish delight, as a gaudily-painted butterfly flew past her, and would stretch out her little hands to arrest its flight; but the wanderer of the air found no difficulty in eluding the tiny hands of the child.

At length, as if weary of her pastime, she rose from her grassy seat, and tottled towards the open gate, out of which she passed, and strayed along the path by the roadside, pausing where fancy prompted. Her disappearance had not been noted by those in the house, partly because their attention was occupied by a tall, swarthy woman, with fierce black eyes, who was at that moment asking, or rather demanding, alms of the mistress of the house.

“We are not in the habit,” said the latter, “of giving money; but whatever food you may require will be cheerfully given.”

“I don’t want any food,” said the woman, abruptly. “You talk as if victuals was the only thing one could need. I have had something to eat already. I want money, I tell you.”

“Then why don’t you work for it?” asked the lady, somewhat offended at the boldness of her speech.

“Because I don’t see why I should work my life out while others are living in plenty. There are plenty of fine ladies who wouldn’t lift their fingers if it was to save a life. Am I not as good as they? Why, then, should they fare any better than I?”

“That I do not pretend to say. I only know that he is most happy who strives to content himself with that station in which the Almighty has placed him.”

“Oh! it is all very well for those to talk of being contented who have every thing to make them so. Very praiseworthy it is, to be sure!” said the woman, laughing scornfully.

The violence of her language increased to such an extent, that Mrs. Gregory—for it was she—found it necessary to order her to leave the house. She did so, but not without many imprecations. As she strode along with hasty steps, she espied by the roadside a little girl, holding in her hand a flower that she had just plucked.

“Isn’t it pitty?” said the child, holding it up.

A thought struck the woman, and she arrested her steps.

“Where do you live, little girl?” she asked, softening her voice as much as practicable, so as not to alarm the child.

“I live there,” said the little girl, pointing to the house the woman had just quitted.

“Yes, yes,” muttered the latter to herself; “you’re the child of that proud lady that refused me what I asked. Perhaps she may repent it.”

“Would you like to go with me?” she asked, turning once more to the child. “I will show you where there are flowers a great deal prettier.”

“Yes,” said the unsuspecting child, gaining her feet, and placing her hand in the woman’s.

Was there no magic in the soft touch of that little hand that could turn away that bad woman from her wicked purpose?

Alas! when the heart becomes familiar with crime, all the gentler parts of the nature become hard and callous.

“Would you like to have me take you in my arms, and then we should get there quicker?” said the woman, who knew it would not do to accommodate herself to the child’s slow pace.

The latter made no resistance; and, with the little girl in her arms, the woman walked swiftly along. She soon turned aside from the street, for fear of attracting a degree of observation,—which, under present circumstances, would be embarrassing to her,—and took her way, by a less frequented road, to the city.

The child soon became restless, and wished to go home. The woman assured her that she was carrying her there. Before long, the regular motion of walking acted as a sedative upon the child, and she fell asleep. Her bearer made the most of this opportunity, and walked with quickened steps towards her haunt—for home she had none—in the great city, which she had already entered. Some whom she met gazed with curious eyes at the woman and her burden, and could not help noting the contrast between the two in dress: but no one felt called upon to interfere; and so she reached her destination.

The next day saw Helen—for this the woman discovered to be the child’s name—stripped of her tasteful attire, and clothed in a ragged and dirty dress, suited to the company into which she had fallen. At the same time, her abundant curls were cut off close to her head, principally to render more difficult the chance of recognition.

The woman found Helen of essential service in her line. Though disfigured by her uncouth dress and the loss of her curls, her beauty was sufficiently striking to draw many a coin from compassionate strangers, which would not otherwise have been obtained. This little episode completed, we resume the main thread of our narrative.

V.

Notwithstanding the kind treatment which Helen received in her new home, she did not seem happy. Although the companions among which she had been thrown had not been of a nature to give her very elevated ideas of moral rectitude, something within told her that the act required of her would be one of the basest ingratitude. The more she thought of it, the more her heart recoiled from it. Yet so accustomed was she to obey the man Armstrong without question,—not so much from affection as from fear and a sense of duty,—that she had hardly admitted to herself the possibility of refusing to comply with his demands. Now, however, that he had himself confessed that no relationship existed between them, the force of the latter consideration was not a little weakened; and, as fear decreases in the absence of those who inspire it, she began now to consider in what way she could contrive to avoid it.

Circumstances occurred before the dreaded Friday night which served to hasten her decision. On the day previous, while roaming through the fields with Ellen and Frank Gregory, in jumping hastily from a stone wall, her foot turned, and her ankle was severely sprained. The pain was so violent that she nearly fainted, and was quite unable to make her way to the house, which was some quarter of a mile distant. The children were exceedingly frightened, and, returning in breathless haste, gave an immediate alarm.

Two men were speedily obtained, who, constructing a soft litter, conveyed Helen to the house, without occasioning her much additional pain. A physician was at once summoned. Meanwhile, Helen was put to bed, where she received every attention. Mrs. Gregory had a warm heart, which suffering in any form was sure to reach; and, had Helen been her own child, she could not have been more tenderly cared for.

The physician decided that it was nothing very serious; though he recommended, as a necessary precaution, that the injured member should not be used for a fortnight or more, lest inflammation might ensue.

Helen did not hear him pronounce this sentence. When, however, she was informed of it by Mrs. Gregory, after his departure, her mind at once reverted to the fact that it would be an insuperable obstacle to her performing the part assigned her. Actuated by the relief which the thought brought to her, and without thinking of the manner in which it would be construed, she involuntarily exclaimed,—

“Oh! I am so glad!”

“Glad!” exclaimed Mrs. Gregory, in astonishment. “What can you mean? You surely cannot mean that you are glad you will be confined to the house by sickness?”

Helen was embarrassed. She knew she could not explain herself without telling all; and that she had not yet determined upon. At length she said,—

“Because it will prevent me from doing something that I did not want to do.”

“But why did you not want to do it?” asked Mrs. Gregory.

“Because I do not think it would have been right.”

“Then why would you have done it at all, even if you had been well enough, if it was wrong?” asked Mrs. Gregory, more puzzled than ever.

“Because I was afraid to refuse,” said Helen, in a low tone.

“It was nothing that I required of you, I am sure,” said her mistress.

“No.”

“It surely could not be that your grandfather would require of you any thing improper?”

Helen was silent.

“Then it is so. My dear child,” pursued the lady, kindly, “I have lived longer than you, and naturally have more knowledge of the world. I need not say that I have every disposition to befriend you, not only for your own sake, but for the sake of my own little Helen, who, had she remained to me, would have been about your age. Will you not, then, confide in me so far as to inform me what it was that your grandfather required of you?”

Helen considered a moment, and then, with a rapidity of decision which sometimes comes after long and anxious thought, decided to communicate every thing.

“I will tell you every thing,” she said, “if you will promise that no harm shall come to the man who brought me here.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Will you promise?” asked Helen, anxiously.

“Yes, Helen,” said Mrs. Gregory: “though I cannot conceive what is to be the nature of your revelation, I will promise that no harm shall befall your grandfather.”

“You are so good and kind,” said the child, “that I can trust to what you say. Then I will tell you, first of all, that the one who came with me is not my grandfather.”

“Not your grandfather?” echoed Mrs. Gregory, in surprise.

“No. He is not even an old man. He only dressed himself up so when he came here.”

“And what made him do that?”

“Because he thought you would pity him, and be more ready to take me.”

“Is he any relation to you?”

“I thought he was my uncle,” returned Helen, “until he came here last time. Then he told me that he was no relation.”

“Where are your relations?”

“I don’t know,” said Helen, thoughtfully. “I suppose I must have had some once; but I can’t remember any thing about them. I have lived with my—I mean Mr. Armstrong, ever since I can recollect.”

“And what was it he wanted you to do? Why was he so anxious to have you come here?”

“Because? You mustn’t blame me,” said Helen, earnestly, lifting her eyes to Mrs. Gregory’s face; “for it made me very unhappy to think of doing it. But he wanted me to leave the door open to-morrow night, so that he could get in and carry off the silver.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mrs. Gregory. “And he wished to implicate you in such a crime?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Helen. “He told me that was what he wanted me to come here for; and then I didn’t want to come at all. But he threatened me if I did not. Then, when he was here last time, I tried to persuade him to give up his design; but he wouldn’t listen to me, and I didn’t dare to say any thing more.”

“You said, Helen,” remarked Mrs. Gregory, “that you never knew about your relations. Can’t you remember any thing that happened when you was a little child?”

“No,” said Helen, “not much; but I think I must have lived in the country once, though I can’t remember when. There was an old woman, very cross, that I used to be with before Mr. Armstrong took me. She used to beat me sometimes.”

“How did she look?” said the lady, feeling a strange interest—for which she found it difficult to account—in the child’s story.

“She was very tall; and she used to look at me—oh! so fiercely!”

“And is there nothing, no little keepsake, that you have, to remind you of those childish days?”

“Yes,” said Helen, “there was one. It was an ivory ring that I have always carried around with me. The tall woman tried to take it away from me one day; but I cried so that she let me keep it.”

“Have you got it with you?” asked Mrs. Gregory, in great agitation.

“Yes,” said Helen, surprised at the strange effect this communication appeared to have upon her mistress. “I always carry it in the pocket of my dress.”

Mrs. Gregory, with trembling hands, sought the receptacle indicated, and drew out an ivory ring, on which were inscribed the letters “H. G.” Without a word, she sprang to the bed, clasped the bewildered Helen to her bosom, and exclaimed, tearfully,—

“It is as I thought! You are my child!—my long-lost Helen!”

When her emotion had in some measure subsided, she made Helen acquainted with the circumstances mentioned in the previous chapter, and also informed her that the ring, which had served as the happy means of restoring a long-lost child to her parent, was the gift of a brother of hers, who had inscribed upon it “H. G.,” as the initials of Helen’s name, and that the child had it with her on the day of her disappearance.

The happiness of Helen in being restored to her mother, and the joy of the children on ascertaining that the one whom they had learned to love so well, already, was their own sister, may better be imagined than described.

One leaf remains to be added to this chronicle. It relates to Armstrong, hitherto the guardian of Helen. Although the latter had received at his hands so little for which she had occasion to be thankful, she could not reconcile herself to the idea of his being imprisoned. We cannot look with indifference upon the punishment of one with whom we have been intimately associated, however well deserved it may be.

As Armstrong had no intimation of the check which his projects had received, and as he was convinced that Helen’s fear of him would lead her to carry out his commands, he stealthily approached the house the following evening, as he had intended. The door had been purposely left unlocked; but, in the room adjoining, four stout men had been stationed, who at once seized upon the unsuspecting burglar, and, in spite of his violent struggles, bound him. Thus secured, Mr. Gregory, who was one of the four, explained to him in what manner his crime had been defeated, and added,—

“Although you have been detected in crime, and richly deserve the penalty which the offended law affixes to it, I have been induced by Helen to afford you a chance of escaping. I will furnish you a ticket entitling you to a passage in the next California steamer, and will not reveal your guilty attempt, if you will engage to leave the country immediately. Should you fail to go, I shall feel released from the promise I have made to Helen, and at once cause you to be arrested.”

It is needless to say that Armstrong at once accepted these terms; and the next steamer bound to the Pacific bore him a passenger.

As for Helen, the cloud which shadowed her earlier years has quite disappeared; and in the affection of the home circle, to which her many good qualities endear her, she finds all that can make life pleasant and agreeable.