t me twice before
he went away. I got hot again. I said to Mrs. Staveley: "Who is he?"

She laughed at me. I said again: "Who is he?" She said: "He is young Mr.
Dunboyne." I said: "Does he live in London?" She laughed again. I said
again: "Does he live in London?" She said: "He is here for a holiday; he
lives with his father at Fairmount, in Ireland."

Young Mr. Dunboyne--here for a holiday--lives with his father at
Fairmount, in Ireland. I have said that to myself fifty times over. And
here it is, saying itself for the fifty-first time in my Journal. I must
indeed be a simpleton, as Helena says. I had better go to bed again.

CHAPTER XIII. EUNICE'S DIARY.

Not long before I left home, I heard one of our two servants telling the
other about a person who had been "bewitched." Are you bewitched when
you don't understand your own self? That has been my curious case,
since I returned from the picture show. This morning I took my drawing
materials out of my box, and tried to make a portrait of young Mr.
Dunboyne from recollection. I succeeded pretty well with his frock-coat
and cane; but, try as I might, his face was beyond me. I have never
drawn anything so badly since I was a little girl; I almost felt ready
to cry. What a fool I am!

This morning I received a letter from papa--it was in reply to a letter
that I had written to him--so kind, so beautifully expressed, so like
himself, that I felt inclined to send him a confession of the strange
state of feeling that has come over me, and to ask him to comfort and
advise me. On second thoughts, I was afraid to do it. Afraid of papa! I
am further away from understanding myself than ever.

Mr. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we
went out.

I thought I would have a good look at him; so as to know his face better
than I had known it yet. Another disappointment was in store for me.
Without intending it, I am sure, he did what no other young man has ever
done--he made me feel confused. Instead of looking at him, I sat with
my head down, and listened to his talk. His voice--this is high
praise--reminded me of papa's voice. It seemed to persuade me as papa
persuades his congregation. I felt quite at ease again. When he went
away, we shook hands. He gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave him back
the squeeze--without knowing why. When he was gone, I wished I had not
done it--without knowing why, either.

I heard his Christian name for the firs