thought! O, why did we meet again after
I came from abroad? I had not forgotten
him, not ceased to prefer him, but I had
become quite still and resigned to being alone;
now it seems to me as if there were neither
hope nor joy in life apart from him.

May the tenth.— This is a bitter struggle;
I sicken over it; if it last much longer
scarcely shall I survive it. Yesterday Emily
Cameron came over here and brought her
boy. It was torture to me. There the little
fellow sat drumming, with the toy he had
brought in the carriage, and innocently
prattling, while I longed to hear of Herbert.
It was not until she was leaving that I could
ask if he still persisted in going to New
Zealand, and she replied, " Yes, she believed his
preparations were very forward;" then asked
me if I did not think it a wild scheme. I did
think it wild.

"Then bid him stay, Eleanor," replied she,
looking at me meaningly. I felt faint and ill,
but I did not open my lips, and she drove away.

This morning's post brought me a letter
from her. She says my haggard face haunts
her— what does it mean? Let her guess
what it means. She has known heart-
sickness herself!

May the twelfth.— Peace at last! I was
straying this afternoon down into the beechwood
alone, so solitary, so utterly desolate,
when I came suddenly on Herbert Clay. He
said he had seen me from the road: he had
left his horse at the lodge, and had come up
to meet me.

"And what have you to say to me, Herbert
Clay? " I asked as proudly as I could, but
my throat swelled, and I know my face was
pitiful. We were in amongst the trees, no
one could see us, and he just took me in his
arms and kissed me as if I were his wife.
"Eleanor, I would lose the world for you!"
said he, passionately; and I told him I would
come to him as poor as himself.

Then all that blank of years seemed to fall
away out of being and out of memory— to say
that I was happy is not enough: I was too
contented, too joyful for words to express!
And it is all, all true; no dream, no frenzy
has bewildered me. I shall be Herbert's
own faithful, loving wife!

"And shall we go out of England? " I
asked him.

"It should be just as I desired," he said.

"Then we will live amongst our own people
here at Stockbridge," I answered, " in that
cottage by Brookend, where there are the
roses and the earwigs— your old fancy,
Herbert, shall we ?"

He said, "If I liked it, we should."

I can scarcely have patience to sit still and
write and remember how completely the old
spirit came into us both after that; there
was no more doubt, no more anxiety. I
believe we shall go hand in hand through our
chosen poverty up to our present estate again
before we are old— not that I care to be rich
—all my sorrows have risen out of that; but
I should like Herbert restored to his place—
I should like him to be to others what he is
to me— the best and highest-hearted of men!

After we had walked in the beechwood
till I was tired, we went in to Grannie—of
course, she understood it all the moment we
appeared, and she clasped her hands in great
agitation. " You will not surely be so silly!"
was her remark.

We could neither of us help smiling, but
Herbert said, we were bent on marrying each
other, and we should begin life together
afresh at Brookend Cottage.

"At Brookend Cottage! and what is to
become of Ferndell?" asked she, dismayed.

"It is going to be transferred to Henry's
and Jane's children," said I, " leaving you as
life tenant."

"Nothing of the kind. I shall go back to
Burnbank; I always liked it better than this
wilderness place." And Grannie knitted
very fast and carelessly.

I put my face down and looked at her;
"Tell me, Grannie, that you are glad to see
me happy?" said I.

There were tears in her dear old eyes;
"My love, did I not tell you if it was to be,
it would be ?" replied she. " Well, I am
happy; I would not have liked to see Eleanor
Clare wither into an old maid."

Now, then, to strengthen myself for the
battle that I foresee betwixt the Scropes and
cousin Henry and myself! I shall fully
expect to be called insane for what I am going
to do, and Herbert will not escape either;
but what matters it? We shall have each
other, and shall be happy. I believe we are
two Solomons, myself.

May the seventeenth.— Cousin Henry and
Mr. Scrope are just gone, in the impression
that I am the most obstinate, unreasonable,
foolish woman on the face of the earth. I
am not certain that they really think so, but
they said so, and said the world would say
so, too. What care I for the world? It has
done nothing for me, and I do not choose to
sacrifice my life to it. Why should I? My
little circle of it will talk, and wonder, and
premise, and settle for nine days, and then
they will be quiet; unless they choose to
profit by the moral lesson, that there exist in
the world one man and one woman who love
each other sufficiently to give up wealth for
poverty. Herbert is up here every day,
nearly, and we are making our own arrangements
quietly. He has bought that Brookend
Cottage for two hundred and seventy
pounds, and it is now undergoing thorough
repairs. I went over it, and found it
contained a pretty little bay window drawing-room
opening upon the lawn, a dining-room,
and four bedrooms— quite enough for us.
The owner told him it was quite a fancy
article, and so it is: one of those pretty,
picturesque, flowery cottages, to which
disappointed heroines in novels retire to spin out