If I am not a good girl, where is a good girl to be found? This is in Eunice’s style. It sometimes amuses me to mimic my simple sister.

I have just torn three pages out of my diary, in deference to the expression of my father’s wishes. He took the first opportunity which his cousin permitted him to enjoy of speaking to me privately; and his object was to caution me against hastily relying on first impressions of anybody—especially of Miss Jillgall. “Wait for a day or two,” he said; “and then form your estimate of the new member of our household.”

The stormy state of my temper had passed away, and had left my atmosphere calm again. I could feel that I had received good advice; but unluckily it reached me too late.

I had formed my estimate of Miss Jillgall, and had put it in writing for my own satisfaction, at least an hour before my father found himself at liberty to speak to me. I don’t agree with him in distrusting first impressions; and I had proposed to put my opinion to the test, by referring to what I had written about his cousin at a later time. However, after what he had said to me, I felt bound in filial duty to take the pages out of my book, and to let two days pass before I presumed to enjoy the luxury of hating Miss Jillgall. On one thing I am determined: Eunice shall not form a hasty opinion, either. She shall undergo the same severe discipline of self-restraint to which her sister is obliged to submit. Let us be just, as somebody says, before we are generous. No more for to-day.

.......

I open my diary again—after the prescribed interval has elapsed. The first impression produced on me by the new member of our household remains entirely unchanged.

Have I already made the remark that, when one removes a page from a book, it does not necessarily follow that one destroys the page afterward? or did I leave this to be inferred? In either case, my course of proceeding was the same. I ordered some paste to be made. Then I unlocked a drawer, and found my poor ill-used leaves, and put them back in my Journal. An act of justice is surely not the less praiseworthy because it is an act of justice done to one’s self.

My father has often told me that he revises his writings on religious subjects. I may harmlessly imitate that good example, by revising my restored entry. It is now a sufficiently remarkable performance to be distinguished by a title. Let me call it:

Impressions of Miss Jillgall. My first impression was a strong one—it was produced by the state of this lady’s breath. In other words, I was obliged to let her kiss me. It is a duty to be considerate toward human infirmity. I will only say that I thought I should have fainted.

My second impression draws a portrait, and produces a striking likeness.

Figure, little and lean—hair of a dirty drab color which we see in string—small light gray eyes, sly and restless, and deeply sunk in the head—prominent cheekbones, and a florid complexion—an inquisitive nose, turning up at the end—a large mouth and a servile smile—raw-looking hands, decorated with black mittens—a misfitting white jacket and a limp skirt—manners familiar—temper cleverly hidden—voice too irritating to be mentioned. Whose portrait is this? It is the portrait of Miss Jillgall, taken in words.

Her true character is not easy to discover; I suspect that it will only show itself little by little. That she is a born meddler in other people’s affairs, I think I can see already. I also found out that she trusted to flattery as the easiest means of making herself agreeable. She tried her first experiment on myself.

“You charming girl,” she began, “your bright face encourages me to ask a favor. Pray make me useful! The one aspiration of my life is to be useful. Unless you employ me in that way, I have no right to intrude myself into your family circle. Yes, yes, I know that your father has opened his house and his heart to me. But I dare not found any claim—your name is Helena, isn’t it? Dear Helena, I dare not found any claim on what I owe to your father’s kindness.”

“Why not?” I inquired.

“Because your father is not a man—”

I was rude enough to interrupt her: “What is he, then?”

“An angel,” Miss Jillgall answered, solemnly. “A destitute earthly creature like me must not look up as high as your father. I might be dazzled.”

This was rather more than I could endure patiently. “Let us try,” I suggested, “if we can’t understand each other, at starting.”

Miss Jillgall’s little eyes twinkled in their bony caverns. “The very thing I was going to propose!” she burst out.

“Very well,” I went on; “then, let me tell you plainly that flattery is not relished in this house.”

“Flattery?” She put her hand to her head as she repeated the word, and looked quite bewildered. “Dear Helena, I have lived all my life in East Flanders, and my own language is occasionally strange to me. Can you tell me what flattery is in Flemish?”

“I don’t understand Flemish.”

“How very provoking! You don’t understand Flemish, and I don’t understand Flattery. I should so like to know what it means. Ah, I see books in this lovely room. Is there a dictionary among them?” She darted to the bookcase, and discovered a dictionary. “Now I shall understand Flattery,” she remarked—“and then we shall understand each other. Oh, let me find it for myself!” She ran her raw red finger along the alphabetical headings at the top of each page. “‘FAD.’ That won’t do. ‘FIE.’ Further on still. &l............