e.

In two days more, I received a line from Eunice, written evidently in
the greatest agitation.

"Philip has discovered me. He has been here, and has insisted on seeing
me. I have refused. The good farmer has so kindly taken my part. I can
write no more."

CHAPTER L. THE NEWS FROM THE FARM.

When I next heard from Miss Jillgall, the introductory part of her
letter merely reminded me that Philip Dunboyne was established in the
town, and that Helena was in daily communication with him. I shall do
Selina no injustice if my extract begins with her second page.

"You will sympathize, I am sure" (she writes), "with the indignation
which urged me to call on Philip, and tell him the way to the farmhouse.
Think of Helena being determined to marry him, whether he wants to or
not! I am afraid this is bad grammar. But there are occasions when even
a cultivated lady fails in her grammar, and almost envies the men their
privilege of swearing when they are in a rage. My state of mind is truly
indescribable. Grief mingles with anger, when I tell you that my
sweet Euneece has disappointed me, for the first time since I had the
happiness of knowing and admiring her. What can have been the motive of
her refusal to receive her penitent lover? Is it pride? We are told that
Satan fell through pride. Euneece satanic? Impossible! I feel inclined
to go and ask her what has hardened her heart against a poor young man
who bitterly regrets his own folly. Do you think it was bad advice from
the farmer or his wife? In that case, I shall exert my influence, and
take her away. You would do the same, wouldn't you?

"I am ashamed to mention the poor dear Minister in a postscript. The
truth is, I don't very well know what I am about. Mr. Gracedieu is
quiet, sleeps better than he did, eats with a keener appetite, gives no
trouble. But, alas, that glorious intellect is in a state of eclipse! Do
not suppose, because I write figuratively, that I am not sorry for him.
He understands nothing; he remembers nothing; he has my prayers.

"You might come to us again, if you would only be so kind. It would make
no difference now; the poor man is so sadly altered. I must add, most
reluctantly, that the doctor recommends your staying at home. Between
ourselves, he is little better than a coward. Fancy his saying; 'No; we
must not run that risk yet.' I am barely civil to him, and no more.

"In any other affair (excuse me for troubling you with a second
p