afraid of him, but I should never be that;
his heart and principles are sterling both, and
will not let him go far wrong.

June the twenty-third.—This little book is
my safety-valve: but for it I must break out
in some unseemly fashion during those
interminable séances in the dressing-room. This
morning I have stitched my finger as rough
as a nutmeg-grater with making coarse baby
clothes for a charitable basket.  I hope poor
folks' babies come into the world with tougher
skins than gentlefolks, or else they will have
a miserable rasping from those little stiff
shirts.  Mademoiselle asked if they were for
a " bebi rhinocéros? " and Mrs. Clay told us
that " the offspring of labour must not be
trained in luxurious ease! "  Herbert came
in while we were sewing at the sackcloth
garments, and he gave his opinions, too,
which made his mother angry, and she
forbade him the dressing-room.  He looked
mischievous as he went out, as if a spirit of revolt
were beginning to burn in his breast.  I am
wicked enough to wish that it would break
out, and as for Mademoiselle she incites him,
both by word and act, to set his tyrant at
defiance.

June the twenty-fourth.—I must work off
a little of my effervescent fidgetiness by
scribbling in my journal how the days pass
here.  Mrs. Clay appears to have set all her
faculties to hard labour to devise expedients
for thwarting and vexing her children at this
juncture.  What for, nobody can tell—merely
through a natural perversity, I suspect.
To-day we have missed a beautiful chance of
going to the ruins at Springfield Priory.  I
have not seen them, and should have enjoyed
it, but Mrs. Clay was sure her husband had
said he should want the horse this afternoon,
and, after all, it turns out that he never
mentioned it!  I did not think before that she
would have invented a story to serve her
purpose.  Such miserable, paltry ways she
takes to annoy first one and then the other;
at dinner she would only allow preserved
plums to the mould of rice, which nobody
but herself likes, though there were both
raspberry and strawberry jam on the side-
board.  Herbert ventured on a word of
remonstrance, and all his mother would say
was, she wanted the plums eating up.
Mademoiselle thereupon shrugged her shoulders,
looked wicked, took an infinitesimal portion
of rice and half the dish of plums all to
herself, and ate them with great apparent
gusto.  Mrs. Clay's face was a picture of
dismay, and when she saw Mademoiselle
about to help herself a second time she
warned her that she would certainly be ill;
but Mademoiselle smiled benignly, replied
that nothing ever disagreed with her, and
did not desist until she had, as our hostess
desired, "eaten them up".  I daresay we
shall see no preserved fruit but plums for all
the remainder of our visit.

The pleasantest time we have here is the
evening.  Mr. Clay is then at home, and he
likes to have his wife to himself to read the
newspapers to him aloud.  Then we four can
effect our escape, and we either take a walk
down by the river or across the fields towards
Springfield.  Sometimes we meet Mr. Hugh
Cameron, the curate, and he and Emily have
a talk.  I believe I have discovered a secret
about them; I am sure he likes Emily very
much, whatever she thinks of him, and I am
inclined to suspect she returns his affection,
from her careful avoidance of talking about
him.  They know nothing of it at Meadowlands,
anyway, for he is received there very
cordially as the curate; but Mrs. Clay is too
fond of money to let Emily marry a poor
man, and he has only a hundred a-year.
Every day I expect Emily to come and say
something to me about it.  To-night, up in
Redbank, Mademoiselle left them to themselves,
and when we all went home Emily
rushed off to her room without saying a word,
and did not come down to tea; I am sure
something happened in the walk! I should
like to——

June the twenty-fifth.—I was stopped last
night by Emily's coming in to me to tell me all
about it.  Mr. Hugh Cameron made her an
offer last night, and she accepted him.  He
is to see her father to-day.  Poor Emily was
very white and anxious, but very happy, too.
We cannot imagine what her mother will
say, but dread disapproval.  I think Mr.
Clay would consent if left to himself, for he
likes Hugh Cameron.  Emily will make such
a good, quiet, pretty clergyman's wife!

June the twenty-sixth.—All yesterday was
a series of scenes—painful scenes.  Mrs.
Clay is harder and more unfeeling than I
could possibly have conceived; she is an
atrocious woman!  She behaved most
insultingly to Hugh Cameron, and most cruelly
to Emily.  I never saw or imagined any
woman so devoid of proper consideration for
others.  Emily has been telling me that the
first thing she did when she heard of the
proposal was to shriek with laughter, as if it
were an excellent jest got up for her
amusement. Mr. Clay was surprised, but might
easily have been induced to consent to the
marriage, if his wife had not taken the other
side so vehemently.  She denounced the
curate as a wolf in sheep's clothing, an
upstart, a beggar, a designing underling, a
miserable poverty-bitten Scotchman, and
ended by declaring that if her daughter ever
spoke to Hugh Cameron again she would
renounce her at once and for ever.  Emily was
crushed with shame and pain, for he was
there all the time, and saw the sordid soul of
her mother.

Mr. Clay is ruled by his wife almost as
completely as his children are, and when he
saw her violent dislike to the match, he just
said quietly:

"You see, Emily, it won't do—you must
give him up.  Mr. Hugh Cameron, you have