say that I would not desire our engagement
broken.

I make a vow to myself I will write his
name in my book no more. I will not be a
pining love-sick maiden for anybody?
Tomorrow night I shall dine at Deerhill with
Grannie, and flirt with Sir Edward.

August the thirtieth.—I have a mind to
score out that last sentence; but it would
show if I did, so it may even stand as it is—the
wilful suggestion of a very miserable moment.
I did dine at Deerhill, but I did not flirt with
Sir Edward. I cannot do as other girls do
in that way. I am not a born flirt. There
is a troublesomely strong element of
adhesiveness in my composition which makes me
cling fast to one idea and one affection. We
have hastened our preparations for going over
to Ferndell. I want to be there now, to get
into the midst of fresh scenes, and to begin
some of my manifold duties as squiress of a
considerable village. Mrs. Curling suggested
to me a trip abroad, but I could not enjoy
that now; I want to get into quiet routine
work. I feel as steady and as phlegmatic as
an old horse in a mill.

FERNDELL, October the twenty-fifth.—We have
been here nearly six weeks, and in all that
time my book has laid on my desk unopened.
There is nothing particular to chronicle; it
seems as if I could write most fluently about
my feelings, and for the present my feelings
have got a rest. One cannot go on suffering
pain and regret for ever; after a while they
lose their prominence in the day's experience,
and gradually fade and fade until they only
return in melancholy moments—in the night-
time, perhaps—when we lie awake, longing
for the sleep that will not come.

Ferndell is beautiful—very beautiful.
There are beechwoods where the crisp leaves
are falling already. I like to walk in the
open glades,—the sun falls in broad yellow
layers over the turf, and the birds up in the
branches sing as I never heard birds sing
elsewhere; there must be thousands of them!

I am trying to become a practical and
useful person in my generation, and in that
view have given orders for rebuilding and
enlarging the village schools, and attaching
thereto a master's house. I cannot do all
I should like to do yet, for I want nearly
three years of being of age, and uncle Henry
does not seem to think he can fulfil his duty
as guardian correctly without thwarting
some of my reasonable desires, which he
stigmatises as Quixotic extravagancies. My
own personal wants are so few that I shall
be at a loss to spend my income unless I give
it away.

Dear Grannie does so enjoy Ferndell! She
proposed yesterday to invite some company,
but I only feel disposed to ask Mrs. Lake and
Betsy Lawson, and her sister. So I shall ask
them next week.

January the sixth, eighteen hundred and
forty-seven.—Christmas at Ferndell ought
to be a merry time, but it was not.
Outwardly there was rejoicing, but inwardly
to me it all lacked heart. From time
immemorial the tenants on the estate and
the hall servants have been accustomed
to a dinner and ball at this season, and
though I care little enough for such meetings,
it was best to keep up the custom; so
I filled the house with people for the occasion,
gave them plenty to eat and drink, and
let them divert themselves after their own
tastes. Sir Edward Singleton and his mother
came, and Sir Simon and Lady Deering.
Mary Jane makes the utmost of her new
dignity, and conducts herself with a punctilious
watchfulness over the old man's whims
that is really very creditable to her: she has
accomplished already what nine women out
of ten could not have done, namely reconciled
herself to his family.

Common report—false-tongued jade that
she is—has been making up a match for me
with Sir Edward. Lady Deering asked me
if it were true. I denied it emphatically, and
told her it was not true, or ever likely to be
true. I trust she will consider it her duty
to carry my words to Lady Singleton's ears,
so that she may abandon her fruitless
pursuit of me; it is she who really does all the
courting, Sir Edward stands by, looking vast
and handsome, and occasionally dropping a
gem of inanity from his tongue,—anything so
big ought not to be so foolish, so intensely
vacant. The poor giant has not yet come
out of his bewilderment for Lady Deering,
and he confided to me yesterday that he
thought her the finest woman in all creation.
She was at the moment showing to very
large advantage: her crimson velvet dress
enhanced the whiteness of her arms and
neck, and her complexion was a shade or
two less glowing than ordinary. Sir Edward
suggested that Rubens was the man to paint
her; no one with a more timid brush could
do her justice; and I quite agree with him.
there.

Some of our party would get up private
theatricals, but they failed through lack of
brilliant actors; so there was dancing each
night, and that the young people enjoyed.
I get a good deal rallied for my sober way,
and am asked why I do not do this, and why
I do not do that, for the embellishment of
Ferndell. I don't care for the grand echoing
state-rooms, and never enter them except
when I have company. Grannie and I use
the garden apartments: dining-room, drawing-
room, and book-room, all furnished en
suite, and as cosy and unpretending as
Burnbank. But my favourite spot is this little
eyrie in the tower—bedroom and sulky. I
brought Lady Deering up, and she was
bewildered by my monastic taste,—wondered
what it meant. I chose the locality for its
quietness, and the beautiful prospects from
the four windows. I can see across the