ught of going back to Selina. My ill luck still pursued
me; she had disappeared. I looked about in a helpless way, completely at
a loss what to do next--so stupefied, I may even say, that it was some
time before I noticed a little three-cornered note on the table by which
I was standing. The note was addressed to me:

"EVER-DEAREST EUNEECE--I have tried to make myself useful to you, and
have failed. But how can I see the sad sight of your wretchedness, and
not feel the impulse to try again? I have gone to the hotel to find
Philip, and to bring him back to you a penitent and faithful man. Wait
for me, and hope for great things. A. hundred thousand kisses to my
sweet Euneece.

"S. J."

Wait for her, after reading that note! How could she expect it? I had
only to follow her, and to find Philip. In another minute, I was on my
way to the hotel.

CHAPTER XXVIII. HELENA'S DIARY.

Looking at the last entry in my Journal, I see myself anticipating
that the event of to-day will decide Philip's future and mine. This has
proved prophetic. All further concealment is now at an end.

Forced to it by fate, or helped to it by chance, Eunice has made the
discovery of her lover's infidelity. "In all human probability" (as my
father says in his sermons), we two sisters are enemies for life.

I am not suspected, as Eunice is, of making appointments with a
sweetheart. So I am free to go out alone, and to go where I please.
Philip and I were punctual to our appointment this afternoon.

Our place of meeting was in a secluded corner of the town park. We
found a rustic seat in our retirement, set up (one would suppose) as a
concession to the taste of visitors who are fond of solitude. The view
in front of us was bounded by the park wall and railings, and our seat
was prettily approached on one side by a plantation of young trees. No
entrance gate was near; no carriage road crossed the grass. A more safe
and more solitary nook for conversation, between two persons desiring to
be alone, it would be hard to find in most public parks. Lovers are said
to know it well, and to be especially fond of it toward evening. We
were there in broad daylight, and we had the seat to ourselves.

My memory of what passed between us is, in some degree, disturbed by the
formidable interruption which brought our talk to an end.

But among other things, I remember that I showed him no mercy at the
outset. At one time I was indignant; at another I was s