Thoroton used to say she was like an overgrown
stable-boy, and she was; she came to
Stockbridge when I did, and got into as many
scrapes as any of us."

This is consolatory, but I do wish Miss
Thoroton would allow us to have one little
germ of goodness, so that there might be a
hope of something sprouting up by-and-by;
but she will not.  She says my language is
made up of the most frightful provincialisms,
which never can be, and never ought
to be, tolerated in polite society, and she
inquires almost daily, where I have been
brought up, and to what place I expect to go
ultimately, if I continue to persevere in my
present evil ways.  I'm sure I don't know.

Emily Clay is such a sweet, good, kind
creature; she never says an ill word of
anybody not even of that every-day-more-to-be-
avoided Miss Alice.  Miss Alice spares no
one and no thing.  She deliberately (and I
must acknowledge very amusingly) caricatures
us all—teachers, masters, mistress, and
pupils indiscriminately.  She has a book full
of quaint sketches, and somebody says she
keeps a locked diary: this is esteemed a
great mystery and wickedness, as I suppose
mine would be were it known, but so far
no one is cognisant of it.  I have not even
told Emily Clay, and she is my favourite
above all the school.  Miss Alice does a great
many civil offices for me, indeed sometimes I
am ashamed to make use of her services,
disliking her as I do, but I cannot help
myself.  Yesterday she had to hear me
practise my new piece, and I tried to say I was
obliged, but did it with such a bad grace, that
she laughed and said: " You need not thank
me; I shall attend to you whether you do
or not, and I hate sham!"

September the second.— I scarcely ever
get time to write a line in my book now, but
I must set down what passed yesterday.

Miss Alice has always had to help me a
great deal with my lessons because I am so
low in my class, and I thought it was only
right (especially as I don't like her) that I
should make her some acknowledgment for
her services. I wrote to consult Grannie
about it, and so, when she and Cousin Jane
drove over to see me last week, I asked them
to bring a pretty white enamelled work-box
from Compton for me to give to her.  I never
saw her by herself so as to offer it until
yesterday afternoon, half-holiday.  She was
in one of the arbours alone, reading, so I
fetched it out of my drawer in the school-
room, and carried it to her; I felt shy of
presenting it, and looked as awkward as could
be when I said, " Miss Alice, here is a little
work-box for you, if you will accept it."

She looked up at me in her queer way, but
without ever glancing at the box, and replied,
"Eleanor Clare, I never accept gifts except
from those who love me," and then she went
on reading.

I turned scarlet, but I was not going to
enter into any protestations of my gratitude,
so I left the parcel on the seat and marched
off.  Miss Alice presently came out of the
arbour, but she did not bring the box with
her, nor, so far as I observed, did she even
glance at it.  There it stayed all night, and
as it rained heavily, it is almost spoiled;
Miss Smallwood brought it in, and asked
publicly to whom it belonged.  I had never
expected that, and feeling desperately guilty
got behind my slate, and feigned not to hear.
Miss Alice, however, spoke and said:

"It is a present which Miss Eleanor Clare
offered to me, and which I declined."

Miss Thoroton looked up in amazement
and stared at both of us, then at the box.

"It was an expensive present for you to
buy, Miss Eleanor," said she; " but it shows
a good spirit of gratitude; you have given
Miss Alice much additional work, but she
has no claim on you on that account."

"I wanted to pay her for her trouble," I
blundered out stupidly.

"That you cannot do," said Miss Thoroton;
"there is no question of payment between
Miss Alice and any of the pupils; you are all
entitled to her services, and she is entitled
to your thanks, but nothing more.  If she
had chosen to accept the present, offered no
doubt in a right spirit, there could have been
no objection; but, as the matter stands, I
must desire Miss Smallwood to take charge
of it until you go home, when she will pack
it in your trunk.  There is no need to cry,
Miss Eleanor."

Yes, that final admonition was to me!  I
had begun to cry—to cry publicly; all the
girls stared and whispered, and even Miss
Alice began to look red and vexed. It was
just time to go out to walk, and everybody
began to move; at last they all went, except
Miss Alice and myself, and there I sat at
my desk crying like a baby—I could not
stop, and for very shame I dropped my face
into my two hands: I could have stamped
with passion. In a minute, perhaps, I felt
Miss Alice lay her hand on my neck, and she
said, " Don't be silly, Eleanor Clare, it is not
as if you loved me, and I had rejected your
present—then you might cry; but you know you
hate me worse than any girl in the school."

I shook her off and replied, " Yes, I do!"
so vehemently. I was sorry after I had said
it, for all her colour went except two red
spots on her cheeks, and her eyes looked
strange as if tears had flashed into them;
but the next moment she laughed in her old
way, and observed that she had known it all
along, and did not care. " I don't care," is
for ever on her lips.

September the fourteenth.—What tiresome,
disagreeable subjects we have to write
about!—This week's is, The Four Seasons,
invited to dine with Time, dispute which is
the most valuable to men.  Half the girls
are running to and fro in a state of
distraction: they cannot borrow from books,