and then), it changes from that quick vivacity
and satirical expression that made me dislike
her once to a very placid, mournful look—
she has a large forehead and dark eyes, but
she looks ill and worn; in fact, I believe
she has a great deal too much work for her
age and strength.  She does twice as much
as Miss Smallwood or Mademoiselle, besides
learning her own lessons; she says to me
that she never sleeps above an hour at a
time, and that this wakeful habit she acquired
when she first came to Stockbridge, through
a dread of lying too long, and being up late,
and not having time for her lessons.  She
will not talk about herself much, but
occasionally I hear a little bit of her former
history.  She has neither father nor mother,
sister nor brother, and she is here to be
trained for a teacher.

November the twelfth.—O!  I think Miss
Smallwood the lowest-minded woman!  She
took me to task this morning about my
infatuated fondness, as she called it, for
Miss Alice.  She said that when we leave
school our social positions will be widely
different, and that it would be awkward for me
to have her for my intimate friend.  I cannot
express the utter disgust, the wrath that I
felt.  I said something violent, too, and for
that I was vexed, because it gave Miss
Smallwood occasion to point out what she
maliciously phrased " a sign of the deterioration of
my character through our association."  To
blame Alice! —that angered me more than
ever, and I told Miss Smallwood that she was
quite incapable of understanding the beautiful
nature of my dearest schoolfellow, to whom I
was attached equally by my gratitude and
my love.  Miss Smallwood looked very red,
called me an impetuous silly girl, and threatened
to tell Miss Thoroton: whether she has
done so or not I neither know nor care, but—

       *       *       *       *       *

At this part of the journal there is a blank
half page, and the writing is not resumed
until two years later, when Eleanor Clare
left school: the sudden break-off she then
explains.

MEADOWLANDS, June nineteenth, eighteen
hundred and forty-six.— O!  how vividly
the sight of my old book, that scrawl, that
smeared line, and the avalanche of blots
bring back the remembrance of early school-
times!  Miss Thoroton gave it to me yesterday
when I was packing up to leave
Stockbridge for good and all; she did not make
any remark about the awful moment when
she pounced down upon me as I was making
the entry which comes to such an abrupt
conclusion; she just laid it down and said,
"This is your property, Eleanor Clare," and
marched off with an air of intense dignity.

I have been reading a few pages—I wonder
what has become of Alice, and where she is
now—she promised to write to me when she
was settled, and she has never done so.

Emily Clay and I are together at Meadowlands,
where her father lives: it is a pretty
place, but not so pretty as Burnbank.
Grannie gave permission for me to pay my
visit of a fortnight here before joining her,
and afterwards, I suppose, we move to
Ferndell.  When I was at Meadowlands, last
midsummer, Herbert Clay was at home;
but now he is away on one of his journeys,
and is not likely to come back until Monday.
I wish he were here.  Meadowlands is rather
dull, notwithstanding dear Emily does all she
can to amuse me without breaking any of the
laws of the establishment.  Mrs. Clay is the
strangest woman—if she were not Emily's
mother, I believe I should say the most
unpleasant, tiresome, tyrannical woman I ever
saw; she has a set of rules for the guidance
of servants, husband, children, and visitors,
all equally harsh and equally unrelaxing.
How other people support her yoke, I cannot
tell, but to me it is insufferable—the order at
Stockbridge was anarchy in comparison.
Emily submits with the patience and
resignation of an angel, but I often feel tempted
to rebel; I should rebel but for grieving her,
good soul.

Mademoiselle, who has come for a
fortnight, is not so conscientious.  She audaciously
proclaims to Mrs. Clay's face, '"De stitchwork
I dislike, de 'broidery I 'bominate, de
stocking-darn I cannot abear!" and Mrs.
Clay responds, smiling frigidly, " Idleness,
mademoiselle, idleness, and nothing else."
But mademoiselle folds her hands, yawns in
the middle of dreary paragraphs, and
suddenly breaks out with irrelevant remarks or
suggestions as to the beauty of the day and
the propriety of taking some active exercise
instead of sitting " sew like mantu-makers
in dat penitential dressing-room "—" dat
penitential dressing-room," the scene of our
labours and dulness, being a prettily-fitted
room adjoining Mrs. Clay's bed-room, where
she does everything except take her meals,
although there are two cheerful drawing-
rooms and a capital library down-stairs.

I wish Emily had gone to Burnbank with
me instead of my coming to Meadowlands
with her, as Herbert is away.

June twentieth.—Herbert Clay is coming
home to-morrow, instead of Monday.  I am
glad! for now, surely, we shall have a drive
out somewhere—perhaps to Carlton Lakes;
that was a delightful drive we had to Carlton
last year when the Brookes were staying
here.  I should like to go again. I have
been at loss to understand what Mrs. Clay
was hinting at all this morning while we
were " in purgatory"; sometimes, from her
tone and glances, I imagined it might be at
myself; but, then, her remarks were so
plainly irrelevant that I must have been
mistaken.  She talked about designing chits
of girls with intense asperity, and said once
very emphatically, à propos of nothing,

"When Herbert marries, he must have