ange thing this sadly-changed
girl said to me.

"Maria is taking her turn," I answered; "she assists in nursing Philip."

"Where is--?" Euneece got no further than that. Her breath quickened,
her color faded away. I had seen people look as she was looking now,
when they suffered under some sudden pain. Before I could offer to help
her, she rallied, and went on: "Where," she began again, "is the other
nurse?"

"You mean Helena?" I said.

"I mean the Poisoner."

When I remind you, dear Mr. Governor, that my letter had carefully
concealed from her the horrible discovery made by the doctor,
your imagination will picture my state of mind. She saw that I was
overpowered. Her sweet nature, so strangely frozen up thus far, melted
at last. "You don't know what I have heard," she said, "you don't know
what thoughts have been roused in me." She left her chair, and sat on
my knee with the familiarity of the dear old times, and took the letter
that I had written to her from her pocket.

"Look at it yourself," she said, "and tell me if anybody could read it,
and not see that you were concealing something. My dear, I have driven
round by the doctor's house--I have seen him--I have persuaded him, or
perhaps I ought to say surprised him, into telling me the truth. But the
kind old man is obstinate. He wouldn't believe me when I told him I was
on my way here to save Philip's life. He said: 'My child, you will only
put your own life in jeopardy. If I had not seen that danger, I should
never have told you of the dreadful state of things at home. Go back to
the good people at the farm, and leave the saving of Philip to me.'"

"He was right, Euneece, entirely right."

"No, dear, he was wrong. I begged him to come here, and judge for
himself; and I ask you to do the same."

I was obstinate. "Go back!" I persisted. "Go back to the farm!"

"Can I see Philip?" she asked.

I have heard some insolent men say that women are like cats. If they
mean that we do, figuratively speaking, scratch at times, I am afraid
they are not altogether wrong. An irresistible impulse made me say to
poor Euneece: "This is a change indeed, since you refused to receive
Philip."

"Is there no change in the circumstances?" she asked sadly. "Isn't he
ill and in danger?"

I begged her to forgive me; I said I meant no harm.

"I gave him up to my sister," she continued, "when I believed that his
happiness depended, not on me, but on her. I take him back to m