I told Janie that the stranger’s coming could make no difference to me; but I feel that I have not spoken the truth in saying so, and I blame myself for thinking as strongly as I do upon the subject. Surely I am swayed by prejudice. After all, supposing that Miss Anstruther does remain with us during the whole of her uncle’s sojourn in China, where will be the great misfortune of entertaining a young lady for a few months? and how could we have done otherwise than offer to receive a friendless girl, arriving in the country under such peculiar circumstances? who has also, by marriage, become a connection of my own, and been reared in such intimate relations with my wife, as to be looked on by Janie almost in the light of a sister. It would have been quite impossible to act otherwise; therefore I feel I had better make a virtue of a necessity. At the same time, try as I will, I cannot bring myself to look on the anticipated visit as a pleasure, although I am sure that much of my prejudice arises from my wife’s innocent praises of her cousin, which prove Miss Anstruther to be so opposite, in appearance and disposition, to herself, that I feel I shall never like the girl. Well, I was wishing for more society in Mushin-Bunda; and now I shall have it. Some one to dance attendance on, and to mind my p’s and q’s before, for the next six months; and if I haven’t had enough of society before the end of that time, it’s a pity. Warren says it’s all nonsense; that he had a friend of his wife’s once staying in the house for several weeks, and that it was great fun; and that before Miss Anstruther has been with us half that time, I shall look on her as a sister, and forget all about my p’s and q’s. I laugh at the idea, and pretend to agree with him; but it is of no use; a presentiment of annoyance for me seems to cling to the name of Margaret Anstruther, until I wish I had never even heard its sound. However, as I said to my wife, what must be, must be, and the best method of evading a worry is not to think about it. Easier said than done! _June 16th._—If anything were necessary to make me take a still farther dislike to the idea of our expected guest, it would be provided in the fact that Janie and I have nearly come to words about her, for the first time in our married life. ‘Come, darling,’ I said to her this evening, when at last the fierce sun had sunk below the horizon, and it was possible to quit the house; ‘put on your hat, and let us have a little stroll in the compound together, we may not have many more opportunities of walking alone.’ Our ‘compound,’ as the ground surrounding an Indian bungalow is usually called, is a large piece of uncultivated land, sheltered by lanky cocoa-nut trees, and carpeted with burnt-up turf from end to end, whereof is cut a sandy track, which we term our carriage-drive.