ashamed
of you!' And there she is, with the door locked against me, washing the
child all over again herself. Twice I've knocked, and asked her to let
me in, and can't even get an answer. They do say there's luck in odd
numbers; suppose I try again?" Mrs. Molly knocked, and the proverb
proved to be true; she got an answer from Miss Jillgall at last: "If you
don't be quiet and go away, you shan't have the baby back at all." Who
could help it?--I burst out laughing. Miss Jillgall (as I supposed from
the tone of her voice) took severe notice of this act of impropriety.
"Who's that laughing?" she called out; "give yourself a name." I gave
my name. The door was instantly thrown open with a bang. Papa's cousin
appeared, in a disheveled state, with splashes of soap and water all
over her. She held the child in one arm, and she threw the other arm
round my neck. "Dearest Euneece, I have been longing to see you. How do
you like Our baby?"

To the curious story of my introduction to Miss Jillgall, I ought
perhaps to add that I have got to be friends with her already. I am the
friend of anybody who amuses me. What will Helena say when she reads
this?

CHAPTER XIX. EUNICE'S DIARY.

When people are interested in some event that is coming, do they find
the dull days, passed in waiting for it, days which they are not able to
remember when they look back? This is my unfortunate case. Night after
night, I have gone to bed without so much as opening my Journal. There
was nothing worth writing about, nothing that I could recollect, until
the postman came to-day. I ran downstairs, when I heard his ring at the
bell, and stopped Maria on her way to the study. There, among papa's
usual handful of letters, was a letter for me.

"DEAR MISS EUNICE:

.......

"Yours ever truly."

I quote the passages in Philip's letter which most deeply interested
me--I am his dear miss; and he is mine ever truly. The other part of the
letter told me that he had been detained in London, and he lamented it.
At the end was a delightful announcement that he was coming to me by the
afternoon train. I ran upstairs to see how I looked in the glass.

My first feeling was regret. For the thousandth time, I was obliged to
acknowledge that I was not as pretty as Helena. But this passed off. A
cheering reflection occurred to me. Philip would not have found, in my
sister's face, what seems to have interested him in my face. Besides,
there is my figure.

The