ave anticipated. She walked on by herself. Perhaps
she was thinking of poor papa's strange outbreak of excitement, and
grieving over it.

We had only a little way to walk, before we passed the door of Philip's
hotel. He had not yet received the expected letter from his father--the
cruel letter which might recall him to Ireland. It was then the hour of
delivery by our second post; he went to look at the letter-rack in the
hall. Helena saw that I was anxious. She was as kind again as ever; she
consented to wait with me for Philip, at the door.

He came out to us with an open letter in his hand.

"From my father, at last," he said--and gave me the letter to read. It
only contained these few lines:

"Do not be alarmed, my dear boy, at the change for the worse in my
handwriting. I am suffering for my devotion to the studious habits of a
lifetime: my right hand is attacked by the malady called Writer's Cramp.
The doctor here can do nothing. He tells me of some foreign woman,
mentioned in his newspaper, who cures nervous derangements of all kinds
by hand-rubbing, and who is coming to London. When you next hear from
me, I may be in London too."--There the letter ended.

Of course I knew who the foreign woman, mentioned in the newspaper, was.

But what does Miss Jillgall's friend matter to me? The one important
thing is, that Philip has not been called back to Ireland. Here is a
fortunate circumstance, which perhaps means more good luck. I may be
Mrs. Philip Dunboyne before the year is out.

CHAPTER XXV. HELENA'S DIARY.

They all notice at home that I am looking worn and haggard. That hideous
old maid, Miss Jillgall, had her malicious welcome ready for me when
we met at breakfast this morning: "Dear Helena, what has become of your
beauty? One would think you had left it in your room!" Poor deluded
Eunice showed her sisterly sympathy: "Don't joke about it, Selina: can't
you see that Helena is ill?"

I _have_ been ill; ill of my own wickedness.

But the recovery to my tranquillity will bring with it the recovery
of my good looks. My fatal passion for Philip promises to be the utter
destruction of everything that is good in me. Well! what is good in
me may not be worth keeping. There is a fate in these things. If I am
destined to rob Eunice of the one dear object of her love and hope--how
can I resist? The one kind thing I can do is to keep her in ignorance of
what is coming, by acts of affectionate deceit.

Beside