What could she mean?--But I was afterwards convinced that only my imagination suspected her of meaning anything beyond her usual old-ladyish eagerness in getting young people “settled.” Sunday was another long day--they seem so long and still in spite of all the gaiety with which these country cousins fill Treherne Court, which is often so oppressive to me, and affects me-with such a strange sensation of nervous irritation, that when Colin and his mother, who take a special charge of me, have hunted me out of stray corners, their affectionate kindness has made me feel like to cry. --Now, I did not mean to write about myself--I have been trying desperately to fill my mind with other people's affairs--but it will out. I am not myself, I know. All Sunday, a formal and dreary day at Treherne Court, I do think a dozen gentle words would have made me cry like a baby. I did cry once, but it was when nobody saw me, in the firelight, by Mrs. Granton's arm-chair. “What is ailing you my dear?” she had been saying. “You are not near so lively as you were a week ago. Has any body been vexing my Dora?” Which, of course, Dora at once denied, and tried to be as blithe as a lark, all the evening. No, not vexed, that would be impossible--but just a little hurt. If I could only talk about some things that puzzle me--talk in a cursory way, or mention names carelessly, like other names, or ask a question or two, that might throw a light on circumstances not clear, then they would be easier to bear. But I dare not trust my tongue, or my cheeks, so all goes inwards--I keep pondering and wondering till my brain is bewildered, and my whole heart sore. People should not--cannot--that is good people cannot--say things they do not mean; it would not be kind or generous; it would not be _right_ in short; and as good people usually act rightly, or what they believe to be right, that doubt falls to the ground. Has there risen up somebody better than I? with fewer faults and nobler virtues? God knows I have small need to be proud. Yet I am myself--this Theodora Johnston--as I was from the first, no better and no worse; honest and true if nothing else, and he knew it. Nobody ever knew me so thoroughly--faults and all. We women must be constituted differently from men. A word said, a line written and we are happy; omitted, our hearts ache--ache as if for a great misfortune. Men cannot feel it, or guess at it--if they did, the most careless of them would be slow to wound us so. There's Penelope, now, waiting alone at Rockmount. Augustus wanted to go post haste and fetch her here, but Francis objected. He had to return to London immediately, he said, and yet, here he is still. How can men make themselves so content abroad, while the women are wearing their hearts out at home?