scene to an
overworked man. Oh, dear me, he frowned, and waved the subject away from
him impatiently, with a wan, pale hand.

After supper, I made an unpleasant discovery. Not having completely
finished the unpacking of my boxes, I left Miss Jillgall and Eunice in
the drawing-room, and went upstairs. In half an hour I returned, and
found the room empty. What had become of them? It was a fine moonlight
night; I stepped into the back drawing-room, and looked out of the
window. There they were, walking arm-in-arm with their heads close
together, deep in talk. With my knowledge of Miss Jillgall, I call this
a bad sign.

An odd thought has just come to me. I wonder what might have happened,
if I had been visiting at Mrs. Staveley's, instead of Eunice, and if Mr.
Dunboyne had seen me first.

Absurd! if I was not too tired to do anything more, those last lines
should be scratched out.

CHAPTER XXII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

I said so to Miss Jillgall, and I say it again here. Nothing will induce
me to think ill of Helena.

My sister is a good deal tired, and a little out of temper after the
railway journey. This is exactly what happened to me when I went to
London. I attribute her refusal to let me read her journal, after she
had read mine, entirely to the disagreeable consequences of traveling
by railway. Miss Jillgall accounted for it otherwise, in her own funny
manner: "My sweet child, your sister's diary is full of abuse of poor
me." I humored the joke: "Dearest Selina, keep a diary of your own, and
fill it with abuse of my sister." This seemed to be a droll saying at
the time. But it doesn't look particularly amusing, now it is written
down. We had ginger wine at supper, to celebrate Helena's return.
Although I only drank one glass, I daresay it may have got into my head.

However that may be, when the lovely moonlight tempted us into the
garden, there was an end to our jokes. We had something to talk about
which still dwells disagreeably on my mind.

Miss Jillgall began it.

"If I trust you, dearest Euneece, with my own precious secrets, shall I
never, never, never live to repent it?"

I told my good little friend that she might depend on me, provided her
secrets did no harm to any person whom I loved.

She clasped her hands and looked up at the moon--I can only suppose that
her sentiments overpowered her. She said, very prettily, that her heart
and my heart beat together in heavenly harmony. It is needless to