ered.

She looked as if she could hardly believe me. "Surely you must have
heard the name," she said, "when I told you about poor Euneece?"

"No."

"Well, then, Mr. Gracedieu must have mentioned it?"

"No."

This second reply in the negative irritated her.

"At any rate," she said, sharply, "you appeared to know Mr. Dunboyne's
name, just now."

"Certainly!"

"And yet," she persisted, "the name seemed to come upon you as a
surprise. I don't understand it. If I have mentioned Philip's name once,
I have mentioned it a dozen times."

We were completely at cross-purposes. She had taken something for
granted which was an unfathomable mystery to me.

"Well," I objected, "if you did mention his name a dozen times--excuse
me for asking the question---what then?"

"Good heavens!" cried Miss Jillgall, "do you mean to say you never
guessed that Philip was Mr. Dunboyne's son?"

I was petrified.

His son! Dunboyne's son! How could I have guessed it?

At a later time only, the good little creature who had so innocently
deceived me, remembered that the mischief might have been wrought by the
force of habit. While he had still a claim on their regard the family
had always spoken of Eunice's unworthy lover by his Christian name; and
what had been familiar in their mouths felt the influence of custom,
before time enough had elapsed to make them think as readily of the
enemy as they had hitherto thought of the friend.

But I was ignorant of this: and the disclosure by which I found myself
suddenly confronted was more than I could support. For the moment,
speech was beyond me.

His son! Dunboyne's son!

What a position that young man had occupied, unsuspected by his father,
unknown to himself! kept in ignorance of the family disgrace, he had
been a guest in the house of the man who had consoled his infamous
aunt on the eve of her execution--who had saved his unhappy cousin from
poverty, from sorrow, from shame. And but one human being knew this. And
that human being was myself!

Observing my agitation, Miss Jillgall placed her own construction on it.

"Do you know anything bad of Philip?" she asked eagerly. "If it's
something that will prevent Helena from marrying him, tell me what it
is, I beg and pray."

I knew no more of "Philip" (whom she still called by his Christian
name!) than she had told me herself: there was no help for it but to
disappoint her. At the same time I was unable to conceal that I was ill
at