_July 20th_.—Is it possible that I can have let nearly a whole month slip away without writing a line in my diary? I had no idea of it till I saw the last date inscribed here; and the month itself seems to have gone so swiftly, that had it not been for this reminder, I should have imagined it was not more than a week since I recorded my experiences. I suppose it is the monotony of the place which makes the time go so fast. My poor little Janie has not been well during this month: the heat has been unusually trying, and she lies on her sofa half the day, suffering from nervous headaches, and a general disinclination to get up and do anything. In this emergency her cousin has been invaluable; she is constantly by her side, reading to her, writing her letters, or amusing her with quiet conversation; indeed, I may say we share the duty, for, of course, I like to wait on Janie; and the novels which Margaret brought out from England with her are very entertaining to listen to, and to me an entirely new field of fancy, as I have scarcely ever looked into a work of fiction in my life. I imagined novels, particularly modern ones, were such rubbish; and so I suppose they are. Yet, on a hot day, and when there is nothing else to do, it is very pleasant to sit still, fanning Janie and listening to Margaret’s mellow voice as she reads them to us. We are engaged upon the _Newcomes_ at present. I pity that poor devil Clive, with such a little fool as Rosy for a wife, and especially when he might have had a girl like Ethel Newcome. I didn’t care a pin about the story at first, but I feel quite interested in it now, and anxious to know if he gets rid of Rosy by any means, so that he may marry the other. I think it will be very hard lines if he doesn’t. Margaret laughs at me, and says I am a bloodthirsty monster, and that Clive should be made to abide the consequences of his folly; and so, I suppose, by rights he should.