I sometimes think of this Katherine in this play, when she refuses to let her lover barter conscience for life, but when the test comes, says to him, herself, "No, _die!_" Also, of that scene in Wallenstein, when Thekla bids her lover be faithful to his honour and his country, not to her--when, just for one minute, he holds her tight, tight in his arms--Max, I mean. Death, afterwards, could not have been so very hard. I am beginning to give up--strange, perhaps, that it should have lasted so long--my belief in the possible happiness of life. Apparently, people were never meant to be happy. Small flashes of pleasantness come and go; or, it may be that in some few lives, are ecstatic moments, such as this I have been thinking of, and then it is all over. But many people go plodding along to old age, in a dull, straight road, with little sorrow and no joy. Is my life to be such as this? Probably. Then the question arises, what am I to do with it? It sometimes crosses my mind what Doctor Urquhart said, about his life being "owed." All our lives are, in one sense: to ourselves, to our fellow-creatures, or to God; or, is there some point of union which includes all three? If I only could find it out! Perhaps, according to Colin Granton's lately learned doctrine--I know whence learned--it is the having something to do. Something to be, your fine preachers of self-culture would suggest; but self-culture is often no better than idealised egotism; people sick of themselves want something to do. Yesterday, driving with papa along the edges of the camp, where we never go now, I caught sight of the slope where the hospital is, and could even distinguish the poor fellows sitting in the sun, or lounging about in their blue hospital clothes. It made me think of Smyrna and Scutari. No; while there is so much misery and sin in the world, a man has no right to lull himself to sleep in a paradise of self-improvement and self-enjoyment; in which there is but one supreme Adam, one perfect specimen of humanity, namely himself. He ought 'to go out and work--fight, if it must be, wherever duty calls him. Nay, even a woman has hardly any right, in these days, to sit still and dream. The life of action is nobler than the life of thought. So I keep reasoning with myself. If I could only find a good and adequate reason for some things which perplex me sorely, about myself and--other people, it would be a great comfort. To-day, among a heap of notes which papa gave me to make candle-lighters of, I found this note, which I kept, the handwriting being peculiar,--and I have a few crotchets about handwriting. "Dear Sir:-- "Press of business, and other unforeseen circumstances, with which I am fettered, make it impossible for me to accept any invitations at present. I hope you will believe that I can never forget the hospitalities of Rockmount, and that I am ever most gratefully "Your faithful servant, "Max Urquhart."