ll went the other way,
under the same impression. Philip was a little way behind me.

Not seeing my sister, I had just turned back, when a young man jumped
out of a carriage, opposite Philip, and recognized and shook hands with
him. I was just near enough to hear the stranger say, "Look at the girl
in our carriage." Philip looked. "What a charming creature!" he said,
and then checked himself for fear the young lady should hear him. She
had just handed her traveling bag and wraps to a porter, and was getting
out. Philip politely offered his hand to help her. She looked my way.
The charming creature of my sweetheart's admiration was, to my infinite
amusement, Helena herself.

CHAPTER XXI. HELENA'S DIARY.

The day of my return marks an occasion which I am not likely to forget.
Hours have passed since I came home--and my agitation still forbids the
thought of repose.

As I sit at my desk I see Eunice in bed, sleeping peacefully, except
when she is murmuring enjoyment in some happy dream. To what end has my
sister been advancing blindfold, and (who knows?) dragging me with her,
since that disastrous visit to our friends in London? Strange that there
should be a leaven of superstition in _my_ nature! Strange that I should
feel fear of something--I hardly know what!

I have met somewhere (perhaps in my historical reading) with the
expression: "A chain of events." Was I at the beginning of that chain,
when I entered the railway carriage on my journey home?

Among the other passengers there was a young gentleman, accompanied by
a lady who proved to be his sister. They were both well-bred people.
The brother evidently admired me, and did his best to make himself
agreeable. Time passed quickly in pleasant talk, and my vanity was
flattered--and that was all. My fellow-travelers were going on to
London. When the train reached our station the young lady sent
her brother to buy some fruit, which she saw in the window of the
refreshment-room. The first man whom he encountered on the platform was
one of his friends; to whom he said something which I failed to hear.
When I handed my traveling bag and my wraps to the porter, and showed
myself at the carriage door, I heard the friend say: "What a charming
creature!" Having nothing to conceal in a journal which I protect by a
lock, I may own that the stranger's personal appearance struck me,
and that what I felt this time was not flattered vanity, but
gratified pride. He was youn