I handle the books, place them, record dates, handle books again, place them, record dates, handle books again--the very smell of the booky atmosphere is sickening to me. I suppose I need rest. But how can I rest when I have my daily living to earn? I won't touch those hundred and seventy-five dollars if I never have a vacation. I should lose all my courage if I had to spend a dollar of that money, except for the final end--nine years hence. Even the thought of stopping work makes me feel weary. * * * * * July 1. So the money is gone! I have been trying to face this fact the last hour. The long sickness of ten weeks has taken it all, for I was too proud to go to the hospital without paying my way. I let no one know how matters stood with me. I have come out of St. Luke's feeling so weak, so indifferent to life, to everything I thought made my own small life worth living.--And it is so hot here! So breathless! A great longing has come upon me to get away somewhere. Since I have been so sick things look different to me. The energy of life seems to have gone out of me, and I want to creep away into some place far, far away from this city, where I can live a more normal life. But how can I make the break? Where can I go? How begin all over again in this awful struggle to get work, and succeed in anything? My courage has failed me. I closed the books. I was wondering if I should destroy them and in this fashion burn all my bridges behind me. "No," I spoke aloud; "I 'll save them, but I will never keep another journal." I opened to a blank page, took pen and ink and wrote on it: September 18th, 1909. I have decided to accept a place at service (at last!) on a farm in Canada, Province of Quebec, Seigniory of Lamoral (?). Wages twenty-five dollars a month, besides room and board. And underneath: 12 midnight. My last word in this book. Within the past six hours I have experienced something of what I call "heaven and hell". I have travelled a long road since I came to this city on November 4, 1902. V A few evenings afterwards Delia Beaseley came up to see me. She brought the passage money and a note of instruction. It was directly to the point: I was to take a sleeping car on the Montreal express; then the day local boat down the St. Lawrence to Richelieu-en-Bas. At the landing I was to enquire for Mrs. Macleod, and someone would be there to meet me. A time-table was enclosed. The note was signed "Janet Macleod ". "This must be the 'elderly Scotchwoman,' Delia," I said after reading the note twice. "I'm thinking it's her--but then you never can tell." "How did she send the passage money?" "By post office order. It would n't have hurt her to send a bit of a welcome word, to my thinking." She spoke rather grimly. "I 'm not going for the welcome, you know; it's work and a change I want--and right thankful I am to get the chance."