's life has been wicked? No! If the departed spirit can bring with
it a blessing, the departed spirit can bring with it a curse. I dared
not confess to Eunice that the influence of her murderess-mother might,
as I thought possible, have been supernaturally present when she heard
temptation whispering in her ear; but I dared not deny it to myself.
All that I could say to satisfy and sustain her, I did say. And when I
declared--with my whole heart declared--that the noble passion which had
elevated her whole being, and had triumphed over the sorest trials that
desertion could inflict, would still triumph to the end, I saw hope, in
that brave and true heart, showing its bright promise for the future in
Eunice's eyes.

She closed and locked her Journal. By common consent we sought the
relief of changing the subject. Eunice asked me if it was really
necessary that I should return to London.

I shrank from telling her that I could be of no further use to her
father, while he regarded me with an enmity which I had not deserved.
But I saw no reason for concealing that it was my purpose to see Philip
Dunboyne.

"You told me yesterday," I reminded her, "that I was to say you had
forgiven him. Do you still wish me to do that?"

"Indeed I do!"

"Have you thought of it seriously? Are you sure of not having been
hurried by a generous impulse into saying more than you mean?"

"I have been thinking of it," she said, "through the wakeful hours of
last night--and many things are plain to me, which I was not sure of in
the time when I was so happy. He has caused me the bitterest sorrow of
my life, but he can't undo the good that I owe to him. He has made a
better girl of me, in the time when his love was mine. I don't forget
that. Miserably as it has ended, I don't forget that."

Her voice trembled; the tears rose in her eyes. It was impossible for
me to conceal the distress that I felt. The noble creature saw it. "No,"
she said faintly; "I am not going to cry. Don't look so sorry for me."
Her hand pressed my hand gently--_she_ pitied _me_. When I saw how she
struggled to control herself, and did control herself, I declare to God
I could have gone down on my knees before her.

She asked to be allowed to speak of Philip again, and for the last time.

"When you meet with him in London, he may perhaps ask if you have seen
Eunice."

"My child! he is sure to ask."

"Break it to him gently--but don't let him deceive himself. In thi