yesterday at Stockbridge old church—the
last marriage; that will take place there
previous to its being pulled down. I am told
that it was a very gay and very pretty
wedding, but I did not see it. At first I thought
I would go and sit in one of the galleries as
a looker-on, but when the time came I
changed my mind, and stayed away. They
sent me cards, and, besides, there was a little
letter written by Emily after they came from
church, and before they set off on their tour.
The good, kind heart her's is! She said she
looked round as she came out in the hope of
seeing my face, and was disappointed not to
do so.

Since I wrote to Sir Edward Singleton
about Alice he has been over here again on
the old subject, but I told him it was of no
avail: I respect the kindness there is in him,
but love him I never could!

September the twenty-ninth.—Grannie and
I are going to become travellers; it is
remarkable to see the old lady's spirit, and
how she enters into all my plots and plans!
We are to go by way of Belgium, stop at
Brussels, that I may see Alice's grave, and
then proceed to Paris, and spend the winter
there. Ferndell, meanwhile, is to be shut up,
for it is impossible to tell how long we may
remain away. Uncle Henry insists on my
returning for my coming of age next year,
but we shall consider of that when the time
arrives.

I had one of those great surprises yesterday,
which, perhaps, fall to the lot of
all women of fortune. Colonel Vernon
made me an offer. He is a man whom I
admire and respect, but love him, no!
Indeed, let all around me speculate as they
will, urge as they will, plead as they will,
single I remain unless my whole heart can
go with my hand, and that it can never,
never do. I never can love any one again as
I loved Herbert Clay. I have never had a
moment's freak of liking for any one else,
and never shall. It was a strange oversight
of us when we broke our engagement in that
abrupt and silly way, not to exchange letters,
and those pledge rings we gave each other.
I do not wear mine, but I keep it very safely
—and his letters too— perhaps he has burnt
mine. Miss Thoroton knew nothing about
his marriage with any Miss Hargrave; she
thought it must be his cousin, Mr. Frank
Clay at Grassleap— it may be. I have asked
several people about her, and they all agree
as to her amiability and accomplishments,—
her beauty I saw for myself.

I have just been glancing over some former
entries, and I see that I once made a vow to
myself never more to write his name in my
book. I have broken it without thinking,
but my vow shall be renewed again here.
To all maundering regrets, to all lingering
follies, a long farewell; a final farewell!
I will leave thee at Ferndell, my old book, and
not drag my records of past pain into future
scenes. Some day, perhaps, when I come
home again, a little stronger, or a little colder
in heart, I will inquire of thee what I used
to be, and tell thee truly what I am
become.

FERNDELL, March the first, eighteen hundred
and fifty-four.— It is six years since I wrote
the last word on the opposite page. Six
years! There it stands in yellow-brown
characters, the written promise pledged to
my old book, that I will tell it what I have
become! There is that voluminous notebook
that I kept when I was abroad; five
years and a-half of travellers' experiences.
What shall I write ? I think I will bring up
events to this date: more matter will arise
out of that, perchance.

Grannie, there, is as flourishing as ever
Cousin Jane has a houseful of children; Mrs.
Cameron has three; the widowed Lady
Deering has become Lady Singleton; poor
Betsy Lawson is dead; Miss Thoroton has
retired from the Stockbridge school, and Miss
Smallwood, who has succeeded her does not
make things answer; Mr. Clay, of Meadowlands
is dead, and his son Herbert is the
liberal member for Stockbridge.

Ferndell is looking wild and desolate, and
this great house is dreary, dreary as the
Moated Grange where Mariana dwelt and
pined. And I, my faithful confidant, I am
Eleanor Clare still, and likely so to remain—
wait till to-morrow, and I will tell thee
something more.

March the second.— I fear I am passing
into a frame of promise and non-performance,
my dear book. I promised yesterday more
intelligence of myself— yet, what news have
I ? Yes; there is one bit of vital interest
which shall not escape the chronicle. This
morning, Mary Burton discovered my first
gray hair, and maliciously twitched it out!
I forbade her sternly, ever, at her peril, to
repeat the offence! Then I may communicate
that my schools are going on well, and
that I often lack employment. I wish I had
to work for my bread a month or two, just
to try what it feels like.

March the third.— Last night I was dining
at the Crawfords, and met Mr. Herbert Clay.
Philip Crawford brought him up, and
introduced us as strangers, and the first thing I
saw was my signet-ring with the bloodstone,
on his little finger; what right has he to
wear it, I should wish to know? Possibly
he never gave it up. He sat down on the
couch near me, but he did not talk at all, and
scarcely looked at me; at dinner it was the
same. I inquired after his mother, and he
said she was gone to live at Ashby, to be near
Emily, and that he was alone at Meadowlands
now. The Cousin Frank and his wife (she
was the Miss Hargrave whom I thought
Mr. Herbert Clay was to marry) were there;
she is handsomer than ever. I was glad to
see in what respect Herbert is held, young