contemptuous, for which one could bear
them no ill-will, as they had fought and bled
for us, and might take little airs.

(A cold blast and rush of air, as the conductor
has come in like a spirit, with a
lantern, and wants to see tickets.)

Let me look back again, setting my head,
now aching a good deal, against these comfortable
cushions. It is not likely that I
shall sleep under these strange conditions.
I like dwelling on little pictures of that time,
and it is an easy and pleasant amusement
constructing them. I next see one of our
country-town little parties, and he making
his way—no, not making, he disdained
that trouble, he took it. His way he
chose fitfully; he selected anything at
hazard, called it his way, and others
cheerfully bowed and adopted it. There
are a few such men in the world, and I
have often envied them. Such a manner is
worth money and place and estate. See
how long one of us takes to carry out a
little play, to get to know people, even.
We hesitate, make timorous advances, lose
days and weeks. He does all in a few
minutes. Time, in this short life, is money,
and more valuable.

I dare say all this time he heartily disliked
me—I am sure he did—and had that
instinctive dislike which one man often has
to another from the very outset. His eyes
seemed to challenge me, and he knew me
for an adversary. How could I compete
with him, with such advantages on his
side? And he had a great one, for in those
days, my dear Dora, you were a little,
ever so little, of a coquette, and liked to
have your amusement, which was very
natural indeed.

I have had my trials. My father had
speculated and lost a fine estate, which he
had also encumbered. We had all then to
work and do what we could. I was a
gentleman, and, though not a rich one,
quite as good as they. But they looked
down on me, because we had lost our fortune.
Dora's father had bitterly resented
what she had done, and all her fortune and
estate, too, was left away to a cousin—a
drinking, hunting fellow—who was amazed
at his good fortune. I never regretted it
a moment.

Grainger cast his eyes on her just to fill
up his idle time. For me he affected contempt,
but from me he was to have a lesson.
They wished to force her to marry him,
and she was helpless in their hands.
But when I heard that scandal about the
innkeeper's daughter, where, too, he was
lodging, was I not right to hunt it up?
Could I have stood by and looked on?
And though they said, and he protested, it
was false, what of that? Did I not know
him to be a man of a certain life? There
were other cases as bad. He was not fit
to be her husband, and if he did " go to the
bad," later, it concerned himself, and
merely proved my discernment. Thank
God I saved her! and I can now lay my
hand on my heart and feel no compunction
whatever. . . . .  O that happy first year!
She changed the whole colour of my life,
made me thoughtful, steady, and taught
me even to pray, which I did little of
before. Angel! She shall teach me much
more yet.

Saturday.—Homburg at last. Delightful
and most easy journey. I have written
my letter to her from this sweet and pastoral
place. I write in the daintiest of
little rooms, the yellow jalousies drawn close
to keep out the sun. Outside the window
is a balcony, Venetian-like in its breadth,
filled up with a whole garden of flowers,
where there is a table, and where one can
walk about. It recals an old and lost
place in the country, before we were ruined,
as they say. Overhead is an awning, and
when the sun is less strong, I can go out,
and walk up and down, and look into the
street. If only Dora were here! No matter;
one of these days she shall be, and better
times will come; " one colour cannot always
be turning up," as the maid said this morning.
And here comes the post—a fellow
like a soldier, with a very grim moustache,
who hands in a letter. It is from her, I
could guess at her writing from the very
balcony. I run down to take it from the
landlady's hands and tear it open. It seems
a whole year since I have seen her. Dear
characters! sweet writing! I fasten it in
here, at this page of my little diary.

"DEAREST,—Oh, how I miss and long for
you. How I long to learn that you have
borne the journey well; not that you are better
already, for that I am not so unreasonable
as to expect. But soon you will tell me so.
Our two little darlings only know that you
have gone away. They think it is to the
nearest town, and that you will be back to-
morrow. Don't fatigue yourself writing,
think only of your dear health. Keep out
of the dreadful sun, and amuse yourself.
I hope this will find you on your arrival.

"DORA."

The underlined words, how delicate, how