m of deliberate suppression of the truth--no
matter how justifiable that suppression might appear to be? On the other
hand, dreadful consequences might follow an honorable confession.
There might be a cruel sacrifice of tender affection; there might be a
shocking betrayal of innocent hope and trust."

I remember those last words, just as he dictated them, because he
suddenly stopped there; looking, poor dear, distressed and confused. He
put his hand to his head, and went back to the sofa.

"I'm tired," he said. "Wait for me while I rest."

In a few minutes he fell asleep. It was a deep repose that came to him
now; and, though I don't think it lasted much longer than half an hour,
it produced a wonderful change in him for the better when he woke. He
spoke quietly and kindly; and when he returned to me at the table and
looked at the page on which I had been writing, he smiled.

"Oh, my dear, what bad writing! I declare I can't read what I myself
told you to write. No! no! don't be downhearted about it. You are not
used to writing from dictation; and I daresay I have been too quick
for you." He kissed me and encouraged me. "You know how fond I am of my
little girl," he said; "I am afraid I like my Eunice just the least in
the world more than I like my Helena. Ah, you are beginning to look a
little happier now!"

He had filled me with such confidence and such pleasure that I could
not help thinking of my sweetheart. Oh dear, when shall I learn to be
distrustful of my own feelings? The temptation to say a good word for
Philip quite mastered any little discretion that I possessed.

I said to papa: "If you knew how to make me happier than I have ever
been in all my life before, would you do it?"

"Of course I would."

"Then send for Philip, dear, and be a little kinder to him, this time."

His pale face turned red with anger; he pushed me away from him.

"That man again!" he burst out. "Am I never to hear the last of him? Go
away, Eunice. You are of no use here." He took up my unfortunate page of
writing and ridiculed it with a bitter laugh. "What is this fit for?" He
crumpled it up in his hand and tossed it into the fire.

I ran out of the room in such a state of mortification that I hardly
knew what I was about. If some hard-hearted person had come to me with
a cup of poison, and had said: "Eunice, you are not fit to live any
longer; take this," I do believe I should have taken it. If I thought of
anything, I tho