elf to be taken to the
hospital. "I am dying," he said. "If you have any pity for me, send for
Euneece. Let me see her once more, let me hear her say that she forgives
me, before I die."

I hesitated. It was too terrible to think of Euneece in the same house
with her sister. Her life might be in danger! Philip gave me a look, a
dreadful ghastly look. "If you refuse," he said wildly, "the grave won't
hold me. I'll haunt you for the rest of your life."

"She shall hear that you are ill," I answered--and ran out of the room
before he could speak again.

What I had promised to write, I did write. But, placed between Euneece's
danger and Philip's danger, my heart was all for Euneece. Would Helena
spare her, if she came to Philip's bedside? In such terror as I never
felt before in my life, I added a word more, entreating her not to leave
the farm. I promised to keep her regularly informed on the subject of
Philip's illness; and I mentioned that I expected the Governor to return
to us immediately. "Do nothing," I wrote, "without his advice." My
letter having been completed, I sent the cook away with it, in a chaise.
She belonged to the neighborhood, and she knew the farmhouse well.
Nearly two hours afterward, I heard the chaise stop at the door, and
ran out, impatient to hear how my sweet girl had received my letter.
God help us all! When I opened the door, the first person whom I saw was
Euneece herself.

CHAPTER LIX. DEFENSE.

One surprise followed another, after I had encountered Euneece at the
door.

When my fondness had excused her for setting the well-meant advice in
my letter at defiance, I was conscious of expecting to see her in tears;
eager, distressingly eager, to hear what hope there might be of Philip's
recovery. I saw no tears, I heard no inquiries. She was pale, and quiet,
and silent. Not a word fell from her when we met, not a word when she
kissed me, not a word when she led the way into the nearest room--the
dining-room. It was only when we were shut in together that she spoke.

"Which is Philip's room?" she asked.

Instead of wanting to know how he was, she desired to know where he
was! I pointed toward the back dining-room, which had been made into a
bedroom for Philip. He had chosen it himself, when he first came to stay
with us, because the window opened into the garden, and he could slip
out and smoke at any hour of the day or night, when he pleased.

"Who is with him now?" was the next str