course of such things," my friend said. "They were
married by license, in their parish church. The bridegroom was a
fine tall man, with a bold eye and a dashing manner. The bride and
I recognized each other directly. When Miss Chance had become Mrs.
Tenbruggen, she took me aside, and gave me her card. 'Ask the Governor
to accept it,' she said, 'in remembrance of the time when he took me for
a nursemaid. Tell him I am married to a Dutch gentleman of high
family. If he ever comes to Holland, we shall be glad to see him in our
residence at South Beveland.' There is her message to you, repeated word
for word."

"I am glad she is going to live out of England."

"Why? Surely you have no reason to fear her?"

"None whatever."

"You are thinking, perhaps, of somebody else?"

I was thinking of the Minister; but it seemed to be safest not to say
so. ----

My pen is laid aside, and my many pages of writing have been sent
to their destination. What I undertook to do, is now done. To take a
metaphor from the stage--the curtain falls here on the Governor and the
Prison.

Second Period: 1875. THE GIRLS AND THE JOURNALS.

CHAPTER XI. HELENA'S DIARY.

We both said good-night, and went up to our room with a new object in
view. By our father's advice we had resolved on keeping diaries, for the
first time in our lives, and had pledged ourselves to begin before we
went to bed.

Slowly and silently and lazily, my sister sauntered to her end of the
room and seated herself at her writing-table. On the desk lay a nicely
bound book, full of blank pages. The word "Journal" was printed on it in
gold letters, and there was fitted to the covers a bright brass lock and
key. A second journal, exactly similar in every respect to the first,
was placed on the writing-table at my end of the room. I opened my book.
The sight of the blank leaves irritated me; they were so smooth, so
spotless, so entirely ready to do _their_ duty. I took too deep a dip
of ink, and began the first entry in my diary by making a blot. This was
discouraging. I got up, and looked out of window.

"Helena!"

My sister's voice could hardly have addressed me in a more weary tone,
if her pen had been at work all night, relating domestic events. "Well!"
I said. "What is it?"

"Have you done already?" she asked.

I showed her the blot. My sister Eunice (the strangest as well as the
dearest of girls) always blurts out what she has in her mind at the
time. S