THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9082, 16 June 1888, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

BY WILKIE COLLINS, Author of "The Woman in White," "The Evil Genius," &c., &e. [THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RF.SEHVED.J CHAPTER XX. How long a time passed before my composure came back to me, I cannot remember now. It seemed as if I was waiting through some interval of my life that was a mystery to myself. I was content to wait, and feel the light evening air in the garden wafting happiness over mo. And all this had come from a kiss ! I can call the time to mind when I used to wonder why people made such a fuss about kiseing. I had been indebted to Maria for my first taste of Paradise. I was recalled by Maria to the world I had been accustomed to live in ; the world that was beginning to fade away in my memory already. She had been sont to the garden in search of mo ; and she had a word of advice to offer, after noticing my face when she stepped out of the shadow of tho tree: "Try to look more like yourself, miss, before you let them see you at the tea table." Pupa and Miss Jillgall wero sitting together talking, when I opened the door. They left oil when they saw me ; and I supposed, quite correctly as it turned out, that 1 had been one of the subjects in their course of conversation. My poor father seemed to be sadly anxious and out of sorts. Miss Jillgall, if I had been in the humour to enjoy it, would have been more amusing than ever. One of her funny little eyes persisted in winking at me; and her heavy foot had something to say to my foot under tho table, which meant a great deal perhaps, but which only succeeded in hurting me. My father left us ; and Miss Jillgall explained herself. " I know, dearest Euneece, that we have only been acquainted for a day or two, and that I ought not perhaps to have expected you to confide in mo so soon. Can I trust you not to betray me if I set an example of confidence ?—ah, I see I can trust you ! and, my dear, I do so enjoy telling secrets to a friend. Hush ! your father, your excellent father, has beon talking to me about young Mr. Dunboyne." She provokingly stopped there. I entreated her to go on. She invited me to sit on her knee. "I want to whisper," she said. It was too ridiculous—but I did it. Miss Jillgall's whisper told me serious news.

"The minister has some reason, Euneece, for disapproving of Mr. Dunboyne ; but, mind this, I don't think ho h.is a bad opinion of the young man himself. He is going to return Mr. Dunboyno's call. Oh, I do so hate formality ; I really can't go on talking of Mr. Dunboyne. Tell me his Christian name. Ah, what & noble name! How I long to bo useful to him ! To-morrow, my dear, after the one o'clock dinner, your papa will call upon Philip at his hotel. I hope ho won't be out, just at the wrong time. I resolved to prevent that unlucky accident by writing to Philip. If Miss Jillgall would have allowed it I should have begun my letter at once. But she had more to say; and she was stronger than I was, and still kept me on her knee. " It all looks bright enough so far, doesnt't it, dear sister ? Will you let me be your third sister? I do so love you, Euneece. Thank you ! thank you! But the gloomy side of the picture is to como next. The minister—no ! now I am your sister I musS call him papa; it makes me feel so young again ! Well, then, papa has asked me to be your companion whenever you go out. 'Euneece is too young and too attractive to be walking about this great town (in Helena's absence) by herself.' That was how he put it. Slyly enough, if one may say so of so good a man. And he used your sister (didn't he ?) as a kind of excuse. I wish your sister was as nice as

you are. However, the point is, why am I to be your companion ? Because, dear child, you and your young gentleman are not to make appointments and to meet each other alone. Oh, yes—that's it. Your father is quite willing to return Philip's call; he proposes (as a matter of civility to Mrs. Staveley) to ask Philip to dinner ; but, mark my words, he doesn't mean to let Philip have you for his wife." I jumped off her lap; it was horrible to hear her.

"Oh!" I said, "can you be rightabout it ?"

Miss Jillgall jumped up too. She has foreign ways of shrugging her shoulders und making signs with her hands. On this occasion she laid both hands on the upper part of her dress, just below her throat, and mysteriously shook her head. "When my views are directed by my affections," she assured me, " I never see wrong. My bosom is my strong point." She has no bosom, poor soul — but I understood what she meant. It failed to have any soothing effect on my feelings. I felt grieved and angry and puzzled, all in one. Miss Jillgall stood looking at me, with her hands still on tho place where her bosom was supposed to be. She made my temper hotter than ever. "I mean to marry Philip," I said. "Certainly, my dear Euneece. But please don't be so fierce about it." " If my father does really object to my marriage," I went on, "it must be because he dislikes Philip. There can be no other reason."

" Oh, yes, dear, there can." " What is the reason, then ?" "That, my sweet girl, is one of the tilings that we have got to lincl out." * ¥ ♦ ♦ *

The post of this morning brought a letter from my sister. We were to expect her return by the next day's train. This was good news. Philip and I might stand in need of clover Helena's help, and we might be sure of getting it now. In writing to Philip I had asked him to let me hear how papa and he had got on at the hotel.

I won't say how often I consulted my watch, or how often I looked out of the window for a man with a letter in his hand. It will be better to get on at once to the discouraging end of it, when the report of the interview reached me at lust. Twice Philip had attempted to ask for my hand in marriage, and twice my father had " deliberately, obstinately" (Philip's own words) changed the subject. Even this was not all. As if lie was determined to show that Miss Jillg'all was perfectly right and I perfectly wrong, pnpa (civil to Philip as long as he did not talk of me) had asked him to dine with us, and Philip had accepted the invitation. What were we to think of it ? What were we to do ?

I wrote back to my dear love (so cruelly used) to tell him that Helena was expected to return on the next day, and that her opinion would be of the greatest value to both of us. In a postscript I mentioned the hour at which we were going to the station to meet my sister. When I say "we," I mean Miss Jillgall as well as my-

We found him waiting for us at the railway. lam afraid he resented pnpa's incomprehensible resolution not to give him a hearing. He was silent and sullen. I could not conceal that to see this state of feeling distressed me. He showed how truly he deserved to be loved—he begged my pardon, and ho became his own sweet self again directly. I am more determined to marry him than ever. When the train entered the station all the carriages were full. Looking along the train, I went one way, thinking I had seen Helena. Miss Jillgall went the other way, under the same impression. Philip was a little way behind me. Not seeing my sister, I had just turned back, when a young man jumped out of a carriage, opposite to Philip, and recognised .and shook hands with him. I was just near enough to hear the stranger say : " Look at the girl in our carriage.' , Philip looked. " What a charming creature !" he said, and then checked himself for fear the young lady should hear him. She had just handed her travelling bag and wraps to a porter and was getting out. Philip politely offered his hand to help her. Sho looked my way. Thocharming creature of my sweetheart's admiration was, to my infinite amusement, Helena herself.

CHAPTER XXI. II ELEN A'S DIA KY. The (lay of my return marks an occasion which I mn not likely to forget. Hours have passed since I came home —and ray agitation still forbids the thought of repose. As I sit. at my desk I see Eunice in bed, pleeping peacefully, except when she is murmuring enjoyment in some happy dream. To what end has my sifter been advancing blindfold, and (who knows) dragging me witl> her, since that disastrous visit to our friends in London? Strange that there should be a leaven of superstition in my nature ! Strange that I should feel fear of something—l hardly know what ! I have meet somewhere (perhaps in my historical reading) with the expression : "A chain of event?." Was lat the beginning of the chain, when I entered the railway carriage on my journey home ? Among the other passengers (here was a young gentleman, accompanied by a lady who proved to be his sister. They wore both well-bred people. The brother evidently admired me, and did his best to make himself agreeable. Time passed quickly in pleasant talk, and my vanity was flattered —and that was all.

My fellow travellers were going on to London. When the train reached our station tho young lady sent her brother to buy some fruit, which she saw in tho window of the refreshment room. The first man whom he encountered on the platform was one of his friends, to whom lie said something which I failed to hear. When I handed my travelling bag and my wraps to the porter, and showed myself at the carriage door, I heard the friend say : " What a charming creature !" Having nothing to conceal in a journal which I mean to protect for the future by a lock, I may own that the stranger's personal appearance struck mo, and that what I folt tliis time was not flattered vanity, but gratified pride. He was young, he was remarkably handsome, he was a distinguished-looking man. All this happened in one moment. In the moment that followed, I found myself in Eunice's arms. That odious person, Miss Jillgall, insisted on embracing me next. And then I was conscious of an indescribable feeling of surprise. Eunice presented the distinguished-looking gentleman to me as a friend of hers —Mr Philip Dunboyne. " I had the honour of meeting your sister," he said, "in London at Mr. Staveley's house." He went on to speak easily and gracofully of the journey I had taken, and of his friend who had been my fellow traveller ; and he attended us to the railway omnibus bofore ho took his leave. I observed that Eunice had something to say to him confidentially, before they°parted. This was another example of my sister's childish character ; she is instantly familiar with new acquaintances, if she happens to like them. I anticipated some amusement from hearing how she had contrived to establish confidential relations with a highly cultivated man like Mr. .Dunboyne. But, while Miss Jillgall wae with us, it was just as well to keep within the limits of commonplace conversation. Before wo got out of the omnibus I had, however, observed one undosirable result of my absence from home. Eunice and Miss Jillgall—the latter having, no doubt, finely flattered the former—appeared to have taken a strong liking to each other. Two curious circumstances also caught my attention. I saw a change too, what I call self-assertion, in my sister's manner ; something soemed to have raised her in her own estimation. Then, again, Miss Jillgall was not like her customary self. She had delightful moments of silence; and when Eunice asked how I liked Mr. Dunboyne, ehe listened to my reply with an appearance of interest in her ugly face, which was quite a new revelation in my experience of my father's cousin.

These little discoveries (after what I had already observed at the railway station) ought perhaps to have prepared me for what was to como, when my sister and I were alone in our room. But Eunice, whether she meant to do it or not, baffled my customary penetration, She looked as if she had plenty of news to tell me—with some obstacle in the way of doing it, which appeared to amuse instead of annoying her. It there is one thing more than another that I hate, it is being puzzled. I ask at once if anything remarkable had happened during Eunice's visit to London. She smiled mischievously. " I have got a delieious surprise for you, my dear; and I

do so enjoy prolonging it. Tell me, Helena, what did you propose we should both do when we found ourselves at home again ?" My memory was at fault. Eunice's good spirits became absolutely boisterous. She called out: "Catch !" and tossed her journal into my hands, across the whole length of the room. "We were to read each other's diaries," she said. "There is mine to begin with." Innocent of any suspicion of the true state of affairs, I began the reading of Eunice's journal. If I had not seen the familiar handwriting, nothing would have induced me to believe that a girl brought up in a pious household, the well beloved daughter of one of the most distinguished men in the Wesleyan ministry, could have written that shameless record of passions unknown to young ladies in respectable English life. What to say, what to do, when I had closed the book, was more than I felt myself equal to decide. My wretched sister spared me the anxiety which I might otherwise have felt. It was she who first opened her lips, after the silence that had fallen on us while I was reading. These were literally the words that she said :

"My darling, why don'b you congratulate me ?"

No arguments could have persuaded me, as this persuaded me, that all sisterly remonstrance on my part would be completely thrown away. " My dear Eunice," I said, "let me beg y<ju to excuse me. lam waiting—" There she interrupted me—and, oh, in what an impudent manner ! She took my chin between her finger and thumb, and lifted my downcast face, and looked at me with an appearance of eager expectation which I was quite at a loss to understand. "You have been away from home, too," she said. "Do I see in this serious face some astonishing news waiting to overpower me? Have you found a sweetheart? Are you engaged to be married ?" I only put her hand away from me, and advised her to return to her chair. This perfectly harmless proceeding seemed absolutely to frighten her. "Oh, my dear," she burst out, "surely you are not jealous of me ?" There was but one possible reply to this ; I laughed at it. Is Eunice's head turned ? She kissed me!

" Now you laugh," she said, " I begin to understand you again ; I ought to have known that you are superior to jealousy. But, do tell me, would it be so very wonderful if other girls found something to envy in my good luck ? Just think of it. Such a handsome man, such an agreeable man, such a clever man, such a rich man — and, not the least of hia merits, by-the-bye, a man who admires You. Come ! if you won't congratulate me, congratulate yourself on having such a brother-in-law in prospect!"

Her head was turned. I drew the poor soul's attention compassionately to what I had said a moment since.

"Pardon me, dear, for reminding you that I have not yet refused to offer my congratulations. I only told you I was waiting." "For what?"

"Waiting, of course, to hear what my father thinks of your wonderful good luck."

This explanation, offered with the kindest intentions, produced another change in my very variable sister. I had extinguished her good spirits as I might have extinguished a light. She sat down by me, and sighed in the saddest manner. The heart must be hard indeed which can resist the distress of a person who is dear to us. I put my arm round her; she was becoming once more the Eunice whom I so dearly loved.

" My poor child," I said, " don't distress yourself by sneaking of it; I understand. Your father objects to your marrying Mr. Dunboyne." She shook her head. "I can't exactly say, Helena, thab papa does that. He only behaves very strangely." " Am I indiscreet, dear, if I ask in what way father's behaviour has surprised you ?" She was quite willing to enlighten me. It was a simple little story which, to my mind, sufficiently explained the strange behaviour that had puzzled my unfortunate sister.

There could indeed be no doubt that my father considered Eunice far too childish in character, as yet, to undertake the duties of matrimony. But, with his customary delicacy and dread of causing distress to others, he had deferred the disagreeable duty of communicating his opinion to Mr. Dunboyne. The adverse decision must, however, be sooner or later announced ; and he had arranged to inflict disappointment, as tenderly as might be, at his own table.

Considerately leaving Eunice in the enjoyment of any vain hopes which she may have founded on the event of the dinnerparty, I passed the evening until supper time came, in the study with my father. Our talk was mainly devoted to the worthy people with whom I had been staying, and whose new schools I had helped .to found. Not a word was said relating to my sister, or to Mr, Dunboyne. Poor father looked so sadly weary and ill that I ventured, after what the doctor had said to Eunice, to hint at -the value of rest and change of scene to an overworked man. Oh, dear me, he frowned, and waved the subject away from him impatiently with a wan pale hand.

Aft-er supper, I made an unpleasant discovery. Not having completely finished the unpacking of my boxes, I left Miss Jillgall and Eunice in the drawing-room, and went upstairs. In half an hour I returned, and found tho room empty. What had become of them ? It was a fine moonlight night! I stepped into the back drawing-room, and looked out of the window. There they were walking arm in arm with their heads close together, deep in talk. With my knowledge of Miss Jillgall, I call this a bad sign. An odd thought has just come to me. I wonder what might have happened if I had been visiting at Mrs. Staveley's instead of Eunice, and if Mr. Dunboyne had seen me first.

Absurd ! If I was not too tired to do anything more, those last lines should be scratched out. CHAPTER XXII. Eunice's diary. I said so to Miss Jillgall, and I say it again here. Nothing will induce me to ! think ill of Helena. My sister is a good deal tired, and a little out of temper after the railway journey. This is exactly what happened to me when I went to London. I attribute her refusal to let me read her journal, after she had read mine, entirely to the disagreeable consequences of travelling by railway. Miss Jillgall accounted for it otherwise, in her own funny manner : " My sweet child, your sister's diary is full of abuse of poor me." I humoured the joke : " Dearest Selina, keep a diary of your own, and fill it with abuse of my sister." This seemed to be a droll saying at the time, But it doesn't look particularly amusing, now it is written down. We had ginger wine at supper, to celebrate Helena's return. Although I only drank one glass, I daresay it may have got into my head. However that may be, when the lovely moonlight tempted us into the garden, there was an end of our jokes. Wo had something to talk about which still dwells disagreeably on my mind. Miss Jillgall began it. " If I trust you, dearest Euneece, with my own precious secrets, shall I never, never, never live to repent it ?" I told my good little friend that she might depend on me, provided her secrete did no harm to any person whom I loved. She clasped her hands and looked up at tho moon—l can only suppose that her sentiments overpowered her. She said, very prettily, that her heart and my heart beat together in heavenly harmony. It is needless to add that this satisfied me.

Miss Jillgall's generous confidence in my discretion was, I am afraid, not rewarded as it ought to have been. I found her tiresome at first.

She spoke of an excellent friend (a lady), who had helped her, at the time when she lost her little fortune, by raising a subscription privately to pay the expenses of her return to England. Her friend's name—not very attractive to English ears—was Mrs. Tehbruggen; they had first become acquainted under interesting circumstances. Miss Jillgall happened to mention that my father was her only living relative ; and it turned out that Mrs. Tenbruggen was familar with his name, and reverenced his fame as a preacher. When he had generously received his poor helpless cousin under his own roof, Miss Jillgall's gratitude and sense of duty impelled her to write, and tell

Mrs. Tenbruggen how happy she was as a member of our fatnily. Let me confess that I began to listen more attentively when the narrative reached this point. "I drew a little picture of our domestic circle here," Miss Jillgall said, describing her letter ; " and I mentioned the mystery in which Mr. Gracedieu conceals the ages of you two dear girls. Mrs. Tenbruggen— shall we shorten her ugly name, and call her Mrs. T. Very well—Mrs. T. is a remarkably clever woman, and I looked for interesting results, if she would give her opinion of the mysterious circumstance mentioned in my letter." B> this time, I was all eagerness to hear more.

"Has she written to you?" I asked. Miss Jillgall looked at me affectionately, and took the reply out of her pocket. "Listen, Euneece ; and you shall hear her own words: ' Your letter, dear Selina, especially interests me by what it says about the two Miss Gracedieus. , Look, dear ; she underlines the word two. Why, I can't explain. Can you? Ah, I thought not. Well, let us get back to the letter. My accomplished friend continues in these sympathetic words : '"I can understand the surprise which you have felt at the strange course taken by their father, as a means of concealing the difference which there must be in the ages of these young ladies. When you mentioned the Wesleyan minister, I did not think it necessary to tell you that I knew something more of him than his name. . Rather sly, I think, of Mrs. T.; but let us hear what she has to say next. Thus it goes on : '"Many years since, I happened to discover a romantic incident in the life of this popular preacher, which he has his reasons, as I suspect, for keeping strictly to himself. If I may venture on a bold guess, I should say that any person who could discover which was the oldest of the two daughters, would be also likely to discover the true nature of the romance in Mr. Gracedieu's life.' Isn't that very remarkable, Euneece? You don't seem to see it—you funny child ! Pray pay particular attention to what comes next. These are the closing sentences in my friend's letter : "'lf you find anything new to tell me which relates to this interesting- subject, direct your letter as before—provided you write within a week from the present time. Afterwards, my letters will be received by the English physician whose card I enclose. You will be pleased to hear that my professional interests call me to London at the earliest moment that I can spare. . There, dear child, the letter comes to an end. I daresay you wonder what Mrs. T. means, when she alludes to her professional interests ?"

No, I was not wondering about anything. It hurt me to hear of a strange woman exercising her ingenuity in guessing at mysteries in papa's life. But Miss Jillgall was too eagerly bent on setting forth the merits of her friend to notice this. I now heard that Mrs. T.\s marriage had turned out badly, and that she had been reduced to earn her own bread. Her manner of doing this was something quite new to me. Slie went about, from one place to another, curing people of all sorts of painful maladies, by a way she had of rubbing them with her hands. In Belgium she was called a "Masseuse." When I asked what this meant in English, I was told, " Medical Rubber," and that the fame of Mrs. T.'s wonderful cures had reached some of the medical newspapers published in London. After listening (I must say for mysolf) very patiently, I was bold enough to own that my interest in what I had just heard was not quite so plain to me as I could have wished it to be.

Miss Jillgall looked shocked at my stupidity. She reminded me that there was a mystery in Mrs. Tenbruggen's letter, and a mystery in papa's strange conduct towards Philip. "Put two and two together, darling," she said ; " and, one of these days, they may make four." If this meant anything, it meant that the reason which made papa keep Helena'.-? age and my age unknown to everybody but himself, was also the reason why he seemed to be so strangely unwilling to let me be Philip's wife. I really could not endure to take such a view of it as that, and begged Miss Jillgall to drop the subjeet. She was as kind as ever. "With all my heart, dear. But don't deceive yourself—the subject will turn up again when we least expect it." CHAPTER XXIII, Only two days now, befoi-e we give our little dinner-party, and Philip finds his opportunity ot speaking to papa. Oh, how I wish that day had come and gone ! I try not to lake gloomy views of things ; but I am not quite so happy as I had expected to be when my dear was in the same town with me. If papa had encouraged him to call again, we might have had some precious time to ourselves. As it is, we can only meet in the different show-places in the town—with Helena on one side, and Miss Jillgall on the other, to take care of us. I do call it cruel not to let two young people love each other, without setting third persons to watch them. If I was Queen of England, I would hove pretty private bowers made for lovers, in the summer, and nice warm little rooms to hold two, in the winter. Why not? What harm could come of it, I should like to know !

The cathedral is the place of meeting which we find most convenient, under the circumstances. There are delightful nooks and corners about this celebrated building, in which lovers can lag behind. If we had been in papa's chapel I should have hesitated to turn it to such a profane use as this ; the cathedral does'nt so much matter. Shall I own that I felt my inferiority to Helena a little keenly ? She could tell Philip so many things that I should have liked to tell him first. My clever sister taught him how to pronounce the name of the bishop who began building the cathedral; she led him over the crypt, and told him how old it was. He was interested in the crypt; he talked to Helena (not to me) of his ambition to write a work on cathedral architecture in England ; he made a rough little sketch in his book of our famous tomb of some king. Helena knew tho late royal personage's name, and Philip showed his sketch to her before he showed it to me. How can I blame him, when I stood there the picture of stupidity, trying to recollect something that I might tell him, if it was only the Dean's name? Helena might have whispered it to me, I think. She remembered it, not I—and mentioned it to Philip, of course. I kept close by him all the time, and now and then he gave me a look which raised my spirits. He might have given me something better than that—l mean a kiss— when we had left the cathedral and were by ourselves for a moment in a corner of the Dean's garden. But he missed the opportunity. Perhaps he was afraid of the Dean himself coming that way, and happening to see us ? However, lam far from thinking the worse of Philip. I gave his arm a little squeeze—and that was better than nothing.

He and I took a walk along the bank of the river to-day ; my sister and Miss Jillgall looking after us as usual. On our way through the town, Helena stopped to give an order at a shop. She asked us to wait for her. That best of good creatures, Miss Jillgall, whispered in my ear : " Go on by yourselves, and leave me to wait for her." Philip interpreted this act of kindness in a manner which would have vexed me, if I had not understood that it wjiß one of his jokes. He said : " 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, "thab 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, oi> thought something, of which he had reason to feel ashamed. With Philip thia 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 ua. 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 eyea 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 waib 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 da as she pleases ?" Helena said nothing more : Philip walked on slowly by himself. Not knowing whab to make of it, I turned to Miss Jillgall. "Surely Philip can't) have quarrelled with Helena?" I said.

Miss Jillgall answered in an odd, off-hand manner : " JS T ot he !Heis a great deal more likely to have quarrelled with himself." "Why?" " Suppose you ask him why?" It was not to be thought of; ib would have looked like prying into hi 3 thoughts. " Selina !" I said, " there is something odd about you to-day. What is the matter 2 I don't understand you." "My poor dear, you will find yourself understanding me before long." I thoughb 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—l'm tiled; I'm an old fool—l'll go back to the house." Without another word, sho 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, thafc shall bo—would have been too distressing, too unnatural I might almost) call it.

Philip looked along the backward pathi, and asked what had become of Miss Jill , - gall. "Have you any objection to follow her example ?" he said to me, when I told him that Selina had gone back. " I don'fa care for the banks of this river. Suppose you show me some new sight in the town." Helena, who used to like the river a<J 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. " Would you like to see the Girls' School ?" Helena said to Philip. 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 !" Hβ suddenly broke into the wildest good .spirits, and tucked my hand under his arm with a gaiety which it was impossible to resist. " What a boy you are !" Helena said, enjoying his delightful hilarity as I did. She walked briskly on in front of us; eager to show a stranger our Scripture class, and proud of her own share in managing it, as she had good reason to be. [To be continued.]