on, "of a place called Low Lanes?"

She waited for my reply to this last inquiry with an appearance of
anxiety that surprised me. I had never heard him speak of Low Lanes.

"Have you any particular interest in the place?" I asked.

"None whatever."

She went away to attend on a patient. I retired to my bedroom, and
opened my Diary. Again and again, I read that remarkable story of the
intended poisoning, and of the manner in which it had ended. I sat
thinking over this romance in real life till I was interrupted by the
announcement of dinner.

Mr. Philip Dunboyne had returned. In Miss Jillgall's absence we were
alone at the table. My appetite was gone. I made a pretense of eating,
and another pretense of being glad to see my devoted lover. I talked to
him in the prettiest manner. As a hypocrite, he thoroughly matched
me; he was gallant, he was amusing. If baseness like ours had been
punishable by the law, a prison was the right place for both of us.

Mrs. Tenbruggen came in again after dinner, still not quite easy about
my health. "How flushed you are!" she said. "Let me feel your pulse." I
laughed, and left her with Mr. Philip Dunboyne.

Passing my father's door, I looked in, anxious to see if he was in the
excitable state which Mrs. Tenbruggen had described. Yes; the effect
which she had produced on him--how, she knows best--had not passed away
yet: he was still talking. The attendant told me it had gone on for
hours together. On my approaching his chair, he called out: "Which are
you? Eunice or Helena?" When I had answered him, he beckoned me to
come nearer. "I am getting stronger every minute," he said. "We will go
traveling to-morrow, and see the place where you were born."

Where had I been born? He had never told me where. Had he mentioned the
place in Mrs. Tenbruggen's hearing? I asked the attendant if he had been
present while she was in the room. Yes; he had remained at his post;
he had also heard the allusion to the place with the odd name. Had Mr.
Gracedieu said anything more about that place? Nothing more; the poor
Minister's mind had wandered off to other things. He was wandering now.
Sometimes, he was addressing his congregation; sometimes, he wondered
what they would give him for supper; sometimes, he talked of the
flowers in the garden. And then he looked at me, and frowned, and said I
prevented him from thinking.

I went back to my bedroom, and opened my Diary, and read the story
again.

Was