n her knee. "I want to whisper," she said. It was too
ridiculous--but I did it. Miss Jillgall's whisper told me serious news.

"The minister has some reason, Euneece, for disapproving of Mr.
Dunboyne; but, mind this, I don't think he has a bad opinion of the
young man himself. He is going to return Mr. Dunboyne's call. Oh, I do
so hate formality; I really can't go on talking of _Mr._ Dunboyne. Tell
me his Christian name. Ah, what a noble name! How I long to be useful
to him! Tomorrow, my dear, after the one o'clock dinner, your papa will
call on Philip, at his hotel. I hope he won't be out, just at the wrong
time."

I resolved to prevent that unlucky accident by writing to Philip. If
Miss Jillgall would have allowed it, I should have begun my letter at
once. But she had more to say; and she was stronger than I was, and
still kept me on her knee.

"It all looks bright enough so far, doesn't it, dear sister? Will you
let me be your second sister? I do so love you, Euneece. Thank you!
thank you! But the gloomy side of the picture is to come next! The
minister--no! now I am your sister I must call him papa; it makes me
feel so young again! Well, then, papa has asked me to be your companion
whenever you go out. 'Euneece is too young and too attractive to be
walking about this great town (in Helena's absence) by herself.' That
was how he put it. Slyly enough, if one may say so of so good a man. And
he used your sister (didn't he?) as a kind of excuse. I wish your sister
was as nice as you are. However, the point is, why am I to be your
companion? Because, dear child, you and your young gentleman are not to
make appointments and to meet each other alone. Oh, yes--that's it!
Your father is quite willing to return Philip's call; he proposes (as a
matter of civility to Mrs. Staveley) to ask Philip to dinner; but, mark
my words, he doesn't mean to let Philip have you for his wife."

I jumped off her lap; it was horrible to hear her. "Oh," I said, "_can_
you be right about it?" Miss Jillgall jumped up too. She has foreign
ways of shrugging her shoulders and making signs with her hands. On this
occasion she laid both hands on the upper part of her dress, just below
her throat, and mysteriously shook her head.

"When my views are directed by my affections," she assured me, "I never
see wrong. My bosom is my strong point."

She has no bosom, poor soul--but I understood what she meant. It failed
to have any soothing effect on my