gentleman, and a very comfortable person to be with, but he ought to.think how things look. He seemed to take alarm at last, and left me. This evening he has been very quiet, and has taken no notice of me at all. He has seemed to regard me as forbidden fruit, and his manner has been decidedly cool when compared with the morning's easy affability. I am sure I haven't done or said anything to offend him, but there's no use in trying to understand a man. For that matter, I do not pretend to understand myself.

Fune 11th.-Today has not been a happy day, take it all-in-all. I hardly know why. I do not feel like writing about it.

June 12th. He is the most inconsistent man I ever met. I have no idea why it should interest me, however. I know it is simply absurd, that I should care a whit whether a man whom I first met four days ago is consistent or inconsistent. But four days in camp is as good as four months in town. Indeed, there are gentlemen whom I have known generally for four years, whom I do not know half so well as I do this friend-for I feel that he is a friend, in spite of his provoking variableness. I do like an even-tempered person, whom one knows where to find. It is very embarrassing to expect a person, to be "a little more than kind," and then find him a little less than polite; it tries one's patience. Mr. Allen yesterday was very agreeable, but today he has another attack of silent suffering. I begin to think he has some type of intermittent fever; there seems a marked regularity in his recurring periods of hot and cold. I hope it is not contagious. I fancy I am somewhat sympathetic. I feel threatened occasionally with his moods, but I crush the symptoms. Today I have been friendly with Mr. Everett. We fashioned a startling image of a weird bird from a man zanita root, and this afternoon installed it with appropriate ceremonies as the camp deity, "Te-he."

June 14th.-Yesterday was too full for journal writing. The day's doings embraced a walk, a boat-ride, a game of crambo, much pleasant talk, a chapter of Hamerton, sketch

ing, and much else, not worth mentioning, but well worth enjoying. Mr. Allen was quite devoted to Miss Scott in the morning, but it didn't seem particularly spontaneous, and he wearied of it apparently, and looked in the afternoon as though something troubled him. I took pity on him, and tried to cheer him up by helping him bring in firewood, or rather offering to. Of course he quoted the Ferdinand-Miranda episode, and seemed drifting into sentiment, but I forestalled it, and we returned to dinner and common sense.

The evening around the camp-fire was particularly pleasant. I suppose the poor uninitiated think they are all alike, but they are never the same. Last night "the Boojum" appeared, and was excruciatingly funny. I laughed immoderately at his antics. Mr. Thompson was his keeper. The dignified Mr. Allen had disappeared early in the evening, and did not return till the sport was over.

Today we have "kept Sunday" pretty well. Beside our individual reading, letter-writing, etc., we had a social service of reading and rather sensible talk down at the Hammocks, and this afternoon a few of us sought a lovely, quiet spot we keep for occasions, and had a delightful religious service. Mr. Allen reads well, and can be very earnest when he chooses. After the service for the day, and the singing of a few dear old hymns, we read and talked of a chapter in "Friends in Counsel," and concluded by reading one of Mrs. Browning's loveliest poems. Tomorrow Mr. Allen leaves us. I feel that I shall miss him. He is not faultless—who is?— but I am sure he is good, and he is not disagreeable about it, as good people are sometimes. He is moody, but one can put up with that, especially if afflicted with the same weakness. He is unselfish and kind, and has much of that fine chivalry which one reads of but seldom sees. He has more will than imagination, more sense than sentiment; but all in all, is a manly man, and I feel proud that he calls me his friend.

June 15th.-What a lark we had in seeing Mr. Allen off! I don't know why it was, for

I really regretted to have him leave, but I felt full of mischief; and when I saw how annoyed he looked at our boisterous conduct in the presence of the stiff and proper people in the car, I acted outrageously just to see him uncomfortable. I played "Wait till the Clouds roll by (which he abhors) on an old comb; sang "Halico Calico" (which he doesn't consider quite ladylike), gave camp calls, and behaved like a spoiled school girl, rather than like a young woman old enough to be discreet and dignified. It is not strange that we are accused of perversity--we often are guilty. Why are we so possessed? What could he have thought of me? He is so refined and gentlemanly. Oh, dear! can I never be ladylike? How chagrined and displeased he must have been. I had asked him to call, but I might have saved myself the courtesy. I do not believe he will. He will think I belong in the woods, and judiciously conclude that in town I would not be a desirable acquaintance.

June 16th.-Have not felt very well today. I believe I am getting a little tired of camp. I think we walk too much, and everybody seems trying to keep up a show of simplicity and light-heartedness. I wish they would be more quiet. I do not get a chance to think.

I

June 17th.—I have written to papa to send word that he wants me to come home. have enjoyed myself much, but I think I ought to go home and take care of himdear old fellow-he has so little change and rest. He must miss my petting, and I miss his watchful care. We are each all that the other has, and ought to be together. I am afraid I have run wild too long. I have had great fun up here, but one gets tired of too much fun. I feel a good deal ashamed of myself, when I think of Monday's performance. It was hoydenish and silly. I suppose it seemed as odious to Mr. Allen then as it does to me now. Why is it that one feels challenged by the delicate reproach that does not even openly express itself, and can risk the good opinion of a friend by flying in its face? I suppose the "You ought not" affects the childish mind much as did the "You dare not" of actual childhood.

It seems rather dull in camp this week. I don't know why. I hope papa will send tomorrow.

Fune 19th.-Once more in civilization, with its many conveniences-too many, I think-its obligations and its delights.

It is one of the many marvelous charms of camping, that one is so hilarously happy to get into the woods, and then so thoroughly satisfied to get back again.

Papa seems very glad to have me home. He says he knows Mr. Allen quite well, and has a high opinion of him. Says he never heard any one say a word against him. That seems about as hard a thing as can be said of anybody.

Fuly 3rd. It is two weeks since I came from camp, and I am quite back in my old life, but still with renewed spirit and freshness. I think over the last week in camp a great many times, and I must confess that Mr. Allen fills a large portion of the foreground of the picture in my mind. I feel that I did not fully appreciate him. tainly did not treat him very well. him on the street yesterday for the first time. He bowed very pleasantly, but did not stop to speak to me. I did not deserve it, nor did I expect it, but I was a little disappointed.

I cerI met

Fuly 4th.-Mr. Allen called this evening. He said he had not celebrated the day in any other manner, but thought I would do very well for the Goddess of Liberty, and he came to pledge his loyalty. I did not know whether to like it or not. I was so repentant for my unpardonable rudeness at that awful leave-taking, that I am afraid I seemed too glad to see him. I enjoyed his call very much, but fearing that I had been too gracious, I tried to lower my temperature, and when he went away I hardly asked him to call again.

Fuly 16th.-Mr. Allen has not called again. I suppose he felt compelled by his awful sense of propriety to come once, and having no further motive, will come no more.

July 19th.-What a coincidence. I have very few gentlemen callers, but last evening Mr. Everett and Mr. Allen chanced to meet here. I was a little embarrassed, but tried

to treat them with equal consideration. Both were agreeable. We had some good music. Mr. Everett sings finely, and Mr. Allen fairly. I sang, because I thought it shabby to refuse. They insisted on my play ing. I was glad that Mr. Allen liked my favorite sonata. He has good musical taste, I wanted papa to play with me on his violin, but I couldn't coax him.

July 24th.-Went to church this morning as usual, and then to call on old Mrs. Thomas. She tired me dreadfully with the recital of her woes and her pains; but I suppose she felt better for it. I read to her and tidied up her room. I was quite tired when I reached home. I was having a good rest and playing with Dido, when in walked Mr. Allen. I wouldn't give up as though it were anything to be ashamed of, so I played with both of them.

August 1st.—Had a delightful day yesterday on a yachting excursion. All our camp ers went, and all were happy. The morning was placid and lovely, with just the breeze to send our little craft gently and gracefully over the waters blue; but soon the wind freshened, the saucy boat leaned to her work, and flew through the waves with great dash. Ah, how exhilarating it was! It made me feel full of vigor and daring. The breeze seemed audacious, and I caught the spirit. Mr. Allen, being an experienced yachtsman, was unmoved, apparently. It provoked me to see no glow of enthusiasm on his calm face, and I am afraid I romped with Mr. Everett. I know I persisted in staying on the deck until I was pretty well drenched with spray. Mr. Allen was thoroughly polite all day, but was not so genial and happy as he generally is.

September 4th.-Mr. Allen, whom I had about given up, called last evening. I meant to be quite severe at his long neglect, but I couldn't keep it up. I was really so glad to see him, in spite of his unaccountable freaks, that I suppose it broke through; any way, we had a pleasant evening, and he was kind enough to invite me to a horseback ride next week, in company with a pleasant party of friends. A very pleasant apology, if that is its

significance. At any rate I accepted, and anticipate much pleasure.

September 9th.-Our horseback ride was exceedingly pleasant. It alarms me when I feel how much I enjoy being with Mr. Allen. It is a new and very strange experience, to be so dependent on another for happiness. When in his company I have a sense of subtle harmony. My heart seems singing within me; and when he is gone, I think upon every word of his that I can recall, and they are many. What a marvel this waking of affection-this growth of regard. I fear to own it to myself, but I can but see how my heart goes out to him. And how changed everything seems. My life is fuller, more serious, and yet more joyous—and the tenderness I feel toward all the world! Is it to last? God, the giver, only knows, but whatever the end, I will be thankful for this which I have this exaltation of feeling, this glimpse into the marvelous world in the midst of the world. I must hide it deep from the sight of all, and surely from his. Can I meet him, and hide it? My efforts to conceal it must cause him to think strangely of me, for I am inconsistency itself. During the ride I would find myself drifting into a happy reverie from which I felt I must rouse myself, and in its dissipation I affected a heartless gayety, and chattered like a magpie. His manner is very considerate and kind, and whatever he thinks, he always acts as a generous, thoughtful friend. I cannot expect that he will ever be more, for what am I, that such a man should be even a loyal friend?

September 11th.—Mr. Allen spent the evening. I was so afraid he would read my telltale eyes, that I preserved the most unsentimental manner, and fenced skillfully whenever he showed any disposition to be serious.

Sept. 20th.-Mr. Allen called again. I was so glad to see him. Can it be that he really cares for me— -I mean, in the way I care for him? For I can confess to you, my guarded friend, what no mortal must even guess. I dare not indulge the hope, and yet I sometimes fancy that he does. Oct. 26th. Mr. Allen is very kind and inHe bears a great deal of unreason

dulgent.

able treatment with admirable patience, and shows me a great many attentions that I do not deserve. He has called frequently, and we are warm friends, but I doubt if we are ever more. We seem to have reached the end. Strange as it seems, he appears to be afraid of me. I cannot doubt that he cares for me he gives me too many proofs of that. Can it be that he expects encouragement from me? It does seem unreasonable to strive to conceal my love, and still hope he will discover it. How can I expect him to risk all, not knowing what fate awaits him? And yet I can give him no hope, till I know that he loves me wholly. That is the advantage woman must claim. Man must do and dare if he would win us. Our concealment is our defense and safeguard. It is our test of the strength of love. I cannot be unmaidenly. If I have dissembled well, I rejoice in it. I will help no man to win me, and will accept no love that does not "in the scorn of consequence" risk all for the hope of success. True love is strong and daring, and has no fear. "The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by storm." It is even so in the domain of love. Nov. 2d.-How can I write, even here in this familiar journal, which is but another self to whom I speak, of the joy that possesses me. I am so inexpressibly happy! He

loves me. I cannot understand how he can, but I know that he does. In spite of my counterfeit indifference, with no encouragement that I could guard against, he dared all; and his heart shone so clearly through his dear eyes as he told his love, that I could but straightway confess that he had long had my heart, and promise that my hand would be given when he claimed it. I am afraid to look a human being in the face, lest my eyes shall proclaim, "He loves me." I feel that the greatest of earthly blessings is mine. I know now that perfect love casteth out all fear, for I enter this wondrous new world with perfect trust. When I look back to those lovely, foolish days at camp, and follow on to this blissful present, and peer into the roseate future, life seems such a mystery, and love such a miracle, that I almost doubt if I am real. How experience widens as life goes on. What unimagined realms in mind and heart are revealed when heaven blesses us with love. What differences it reconciles. What problems it solves. When I think how unworthy I am of this priceless boon, I feel almost burdened with the sense of debt. I am filled with wonder and awe; but in the presence of it all I am unutterably, reverently thankful, for there can be but blessing for one who has truly entered the kingdom of love.

Charles A. Murdock.

Sylvia Lawson Corey.