greeable man,
such a clever man, such a rich man--and, not the least of his merits,
by-the-by, a man who admires You. Come! if you won't congratulate me,
congratulate yourself on having such a brother-in-law in prospect!"

Her head _was_ turned. I drew the poor soul's attention compassionately
to what I had said a moment since.

"Pardon me, dear, for reminding you that I have not yet refused to offer
my congratulations. I only told you I was waiting."

"For what?"

"Waiting, of course, to hear what my father thinks of your wonderful
good luck."

This explanation, offered with the kindest intentions, produced another
change in my very variable sister. I had extinguished her good spirits
as I might have extinguished a light. She sat down by me, and sighed in
the saddest manner. The heart must be hard indeed which can resist the
distress of a person who is dear to us. I put my arm round her; she was
becoming once more the Eunice whom I so dearly loved.

"My poor child," I said, "don't distress yourself by speaking of it; I
understand. Your father objects to your marrying Mr. Dunboyne."

She shook her head. "I can't exactly say, Helena, that papa does that.
He only behaves very strangely."

"Am I indiscreet, dear, if I ask in what way father's behavior has
surprised you?"

She was quite willing to enlighten me. It was a simple little story
which, to my mind, sufficiently explained the strange behavior that had
puzzled my unfortunate sister.

There could indeed be no doubt that my father considered Eunice far too
childish in character, as yet, to undertake the duties of matrimony.
But, with his customary delicacy, and dread of causing distress to
others, he had deferred the disagreeable duty of communicating his
opinion to Mr. Dunboyne. The adverse decision must, however, be sooner
or later announced; and he had arranged to inflict disappointment, as
tenderly as might be, at his own table.

Considerately leaving Eunice in the enjoyment of any vain hopes which
she may have founded on the event of the dinner-party, I passed the
evening until supper-time came in the study with my father.

Our talk was mainly devoted to the worthy people with whom I had been
staying, and whose new schools I had helped to found. Not a word was
said relating to my sister, or to Mr. Dunboyne. Poor father looked so
sadly weary and ill that I ventured, after what the doctor had said
to Eunice, to hint at the value of rest and change of