Later in the day, Mrs. Tenbruggen arrived to offer her congratulations. She asked for a few minutes with Philip alone. As a cat elaborates her preparations for killing a mouse, so the human cat elaborated her preparations for killing Philip’s happiness, he remained uninjured by her teeth and her claws. “Somebody,” she said, “has told you of it already?” And Philip answered: “Yes; my wife.”

For some months longer, Mr. Gracedieu lingered. One morning, he said to Eunice: “I want to teach you to knit. Sit by me, and see me do it.” His hands fell softly on his lap; his head sank little by little on her shoulder. She could just hear him whisper: “How pleasant it is to sleep!” Never was Death’s dreadful work more gently done.

Our married pair live now on the paternal estate in Ireland; and Miss Jillgall reigns queen of domestic affairs. I am still strong enough to pass my autumn holidays in that pleasant house.

At times, my memory reverts to Helena Gracedieu, and to what I discovered when I had seen her diary.

How little I knew of that terrible creature when I first met with her, and fancied that she had inherited her mother’s character! It was weak indeed to compare the mean vices of Mrs. Gracedieu with the diabolical depravity of her daughter. Here the doctrine of hereditary transmission of moral qualities must own that it has overlooked the fertility (for growth of good and for growth of evil equally) which is inherent in human nature. There are virtues that exalt us, and vices that degrade us, whose mysterious origin is, not in our parents, but in ourselves. When I think of Helena............