money with his wife; his father can make
him no allowance now!"

Emily laughed, and asked if anybody had
proposed for her brother, that she was
specifying conditions.  Mrs. Clay reddened, and
said in reply:

"It is well those things should be understood;
young girls are apt to deceive themselves
as to the actual position of men whom
they see in a luxurious home."

Mademoiselle was very wrath, and she has
been to me since, indignantly repelling any
suspicion that she, Aimée Louise de Chalfont,
should have designs matrimonial on the son
of any " canaille manufacturier!"  I appeased
her wrath by pointing out that I as well as
herself might be hinted at.

I am so rejoiced that I never let it out at
Stockbridge about Ferndell being mine—
Miss Thoroton and all of them suppose it to
belong to Grannie; but she evidently felt the
insult aimed particularly at herself; she was
for packing her box and departing à l'instant
même, but I prevailed on her to stay.  She
acceded, threatening to present a visage de
glace à ce beau monsieur!  Herbert will not
be long in thawing the crust if he is as he
was, and Mademoiselle's wrath never lasts
more than ten seconds at a time—no fear of
a quarrel therefore.

June twenty-first.—Of all hateful places,
that dressing-room is the most hateful!
There have we been toiling the whole of the
long sunshiny morning, and now, at three
o'clock, the sky is overcast and threatens rain.
We might have gone to Carlton so beautifully
If Mrs. Clay would have let us.  Herbert
came in at half-past ten, saying he had a
holiday from the office, and would drive us
anywhere we chose to go.  Mademoiselle
shrieked aloud for joy, and I began to fold
up my work, when Mrs. Clay bade us be
tranquil, she could not spare us till the
afternoon; she really must set her face
against such distracted ways.

How poor Emily is to pass her life in this
dreary fashion is more than I can tell; she
will become as tame and spiritless as a
mouse; she is far too yielding and unselfish
already.  Mrs. Clay tyrannises for the mere
love of power.  When she had refused us
this reasonable pleasure, she ordered Herbert
to go off, but he said he had nothing in the
world to do; he had made over his work for
the day to his father, and so he would wait
till we were at liberty.  And there he stayed
leaning against the side of the door, looking
chagrined and uncomfortable, until his
mother found him a task to walk into the
town to match some wool to work her red
parrot with.  We have not seen him since, and
I do not suppose he went near the wool-shop.

Mrs. Clay treats her son as if he were a
little school-boy, although he is nearly of age.
It is marvellous how he submits to it.  I
would not.  But there is so much in habit.
Mrs. Clay is not actively unkind, but she is
like flint, and her character is as tough as
leather; she seems to have no sentiments,
no emotions, no soft amenities of
disposition; I could not love her if I tried for
centuries, and I do not think she could love
me.  I cannot tell why, but she seems to
have taken a positive dislike to me just now.
She shows it continually.

June the twenty-second.—Last night we
had a walk down by the river—Herbert and
I, Emily and Mademoiselle. It was almost
in the gloaming, and I think I never shall
forget that dreary, wild scene.  Though, in
early spring, the water pours down in a flood,
at this season the bed of the river is almost
dry; the white stones gleamed ghastly
against the low dark lines of wood beyond,
and there was a sad moaning undertone in
the wind such as I never heard before.
Then the trickling flow of the springs amongst
the rocky fragments, the rush of the mill-
stream, and the stirring of the leaves seemed
to deepen the silence; there was a strange
effect, too, in the clouds—all purple bars
against a golden sky, which reminded me of
what some wretched prisoner might feel
looking through his grated window at the
unattainable liberty beyond.  As the currents
of air swept down the river-bed, they brought
a briny scent as of the sea-shore.  I almost
expected to see tangle hanging on the stones,
and shells lying about.

Herbert and I sat on the bank, while
Emily and Mademoiselle strayed further
down towards the plantations, and he began
to talk about his school-days; I do not think
he is happy at home; nobody could be happy
so crushed and fettered as he and Emily are.
I do not think Mr. Clay observes how tied
down his children are; if he did, surely he
would alter it; but he evidently regards his
wife as the best and cleverest of women—a
very proper conjugal sentiment, no doubt, but
aggravating if it blinds him to paternal duty.

I wonder what would be the effect of a
little steady, passive resistance, or a crisis of
rebellion—salutary, most likely.  It does
annoy me—stirs up, indeed, the very blackest
drop in me—to watch Mrs. Clay's placidly
self-satisfied countenance as she contradicts
us all, and rules us all, and chafes us all to
the limit of human endurance.  Her eyes are
big and prominent, her features are flat, her
mouth is thin-lipped, and when it is dropping
pearls of moral sentiments, it opens and shuts
like the steel snap of a purse.  It was
certainly an unaccountable freak of nature to
give her two such fine children as Herbert
and Emily.  Emily is very, very pretty, and
Herbert has a noble face and carries his head
well; Mademoiselle styles him Jeune Apollo,
and he certainly has a claim to the
comparison, but I would rather call him Phaëton,
for there is a very considerable element of
rashness in him, and, once his mother's sway
cast off, he will do some foolish things by
way of trying his power.  Emily is rather