interpreted this act of kindness in a manner which would have vexed me, if I had not understood that it was one of his jokes. He said to me: 'Miss Jillgall sees a chance of annoying your sister, and enjoys the prospect.'

Well, away we went together; it was just what I wanted; it gave me an opportunity of saying something to Philip, between ourselves.

I could now beg of him, in his interests and mine, to make the best of himself when he came to dinner. Clever people, I told him, were people whom papa liked and admired. I said: 'Let him see, dear, how clever you are, and how many things you know—and you can't imagine what a high place you will have in his opinion. I hope you don't think I am taking too much on myself in telling you how to behave.'

He relieved that doubt in a manner which I despair of describing. His eyes rested on me with such a look of exquisite sweetness and love that I was obliged to hold by his arm, I trembled so with the pleasure of feeling it.

'I do sincerely believe,' he said, 'that you are the most innocent girl, the sweetest, truest girl that ever lived. I wish I was a better man, Eunice; I wish I was good enough to be worthy of you!'

To hear him speak of himself in that way jarred on me. If such words had fallen from any other man's lips, I should have been afraid that he had done something, or thought something, of which he had reason to feel ashamed. With Philip this was impossible.

He was eager to walk on rapidly, and to turn a corner in the path, before we could be seen. 'I want to be alone with you,' he said.

I looked back. We were too late; Helena and Miss Jillgall had nearly overtaken us. My sister was on the point of speaking to Philip, when she seemed to change her mind, and only looked at him. Instead of looking at her in return, he kept his eyes cast down and drew figures on the pathway with his stick. I think Helena was out of temper; she suddenly turned my way. 'Why didn't you wait for me?' she asked.

Philip took her up sharply. 'If Eunice likes seeing the river better than waiting in the street,' he said, 'isn't she free to do as she pleases?'

Helena said nothing more; Philip walked on slowly by himself. Not knowing what to make of it, I turned to Miss Jillgall. 'Surely Philip can't have quarreled with Helena?' I said.

Miss Jillgall answered in an odd off-hand manner: 'Not he! He is a great deal more likely to have quarreled with himself.'

'Why?'

'Suppose you ask him why?'

It was not to be thought of; it would have looked like prying into his thoughts. 'Selina!' I said, 'there is something odd about you to-day. What is the matter? I don't understand you.'

'My poor dear, you will find yourself understanding me before long.' I thought I saw something like pity in her face when she said that.

'My poor dear?' I repeated. 'What makes you speak to me in that way?'

'I don't know—I'm tired; I'm an old fool—I'll go back to the house.'

Without another word, she left me. I turned to look for Philip, and saw that my sister had joined him while I had been speaking to Miss Jillgall. It pleased me to find that they were talking in a friendly way when I joined them. A quarrel between Helena and my husband that is to be—no, my husband that shall be— would have been too distressing, too unnatural I might almost call it.

Philip looked along the backward path, and asked what had become of Miss Jillgall. 'Have you any objection to follow her example?' he said to me, when I told him that Selina had returned to the town. 'I don't care for the banks of this river.'

Helena, who used to like the river at other times, was as ready as Philip to leave it now. I fancy they had both been kindly waiting to change our walk, till I came to them, and they could study my wishes too. Of course I was ready to go where they pleased. I asked Philip if there was anything he would like to see, when we got into the streets again.

Clever Helena suggested what seemed to be a strange amusement to offer to Philip. 'Let's take him to the Girls' School,' she said.

It appeared to be a matter of perfect indifference to him; he was, what they call, ironical. 'Oh, yes, of course. Deeply interesting! deeply interesting!' He suddenly broke into the wildest good spirits, and tucked my hand under his arm with a gayety which it was impossible to resist. 'What a boy you are!' Helena said, enjoying his delightful hilarity as I did.

CHAPTER XXIV. EUNICE'S DIARY.

On entering the schoolroom we lost our gayety, all in a moment. Something unpleasant had evidently happened.

Two of the eldest girls were sitting together in a corner, separated from the rest, and looking most wickedly sulky. The teachers were at the other end of the room, appearing to be ill at ease. And there, standing in the midst of them, with his face flushed and his eyes angry—there was papa, sadly unlike his gentle self in the days of his health and happiness. On former occasions, when the exercise of his authority was required in the school, his forbearing temper always set things right. When I saw him now, I thought of what the doctor had said of his health, on my way home from the station.

Papa advanced to us the moment we showed ourselves at the door.

He shook hands—cordially shook hands—with Philip. It was delightful to see him, delightful to hear him say: 'Pray don't suppose, Mr. Dunboyne, that you are intruding; remain with us by all means if you like.' Then he spoke to Helena and to me, still excited, still not like himself: 'You couldn't have come here, my dears, at a time when your presence was more urgently needed.' He turned to the teachers. 'Tell my daughters what has happened; tell them why they see me here—shocked and distressed, I don't deny it.'

We now heard that the two girls in disgrace had broken the rules, and in such a manner as to deserve severe punishment.

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