LENA'S DIARY.

On reaching the street which led to Philip's hotel, we spoke to each
other for the first time.

"What are we to do?" I said.

"Leave this place," he answered.

"Together?" I asked.

"Yes."

To leave us (for a while), after what had happened, might be the wisest
thing which a man, in Philip's critical position, could do. But if I
went with him--unprovided as I was with any friend of my own sex, whose
character and presence might sanction the step I had taken--I should be
lost beyond redemption. Is any man that ever lived worth that sacrifice?
I thought of my father's house closed to me, and of our friends ashamed
of me. I have owned, in some earlier part of my Journal, that I am not
very patient under domestic cares. But the possibility of Eunice being
appointed housekeeper, with my power, in my place, was more than I could
calmly contemplate. "No," I said to Philip. "Your absence, at such a
time as this, may help us both; but, come what may of it, I must remain
at home."

He yielded, without an attempt to make me alter my mind. There was a
sullen submission in his manner which it was not pleasant to see. Was he
despairing already of himself and of me? Had Eunice aroused the watchful
demons of shame and remorse?

"Perhaps you are right," he said, gloomily. "Good-by."

My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation.

"Is it good-by forever, Philip?"

His reply instantly relieved me: "God forbid!"

But I wanted more: "You still love me?" I persisted.

"More dearly than ever!"

"And yet you leave me!"

He turned pale. "I leave you because I am afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid to face Eunice again."

The only possible way out of our difficulty that I could see, now
occurred to me. "Suppose my sister can be prevailed on to give you up?"
I suggested. "Would you come back to us in that case?"

"Certainly!"

"And you would ask my father to consent to our marriage?"

"On the day of my return, if you like."

"Suppose obstacles get in our way," I said--"suppose time passes and
tries your patience--will you still consider yourself engaged to me?"

"Engaged to you," he answered, "in spite of obstacles and in spite of
time."

"And while you are away from me," I ventured to add, "we shall write to
each other?"

"Go where I may," he said, "you shall always hear from me."

I could ask no more, and he could concede no more. The impression
evidently left on him by