“_Anne Page_, “_Tufton Street_, “_Dalston_, “_London, 18--_. “This is my birthday,” it began. “I am twelve to-day, and I have made up my mind to keep a diary like Charlotte and Emily and Anne Brontë. At least I think they didn’t exactly keep a diary. They wrote down what they were all doing at a certain time, and then four years afterwards, they opened their papers and compared notes. I think that was a good plan. But I shall write in my book once a year, on my birthday. So few things happen to me that I dare say that will be quite enough. “As I have never written a journal before, I will say all I can remember about myself before this birthday. Perhaps if I don’t, I shall have forgotten it by the time I’m old. “I live at Dalston, and father is one of the curates at St. Jude’s. Mother died when I was two years old, so I don’t remember her. She left me her watch and chain and two bracelets. I have one brother Hugh, but last year he ran away from home, and went to sea. He ran away because he wasn’t happy. Father was very strict with him. It is a good thing to be a boy, and be able to run away. I can’t, because girls can’t be sailors, and there’s nowhere to run to. I miss Hugh dreadfully. He was fourteen, and he was very nice to me. I still cry about him sometimes at night. But it’s no good. “Our house is very ugly. It’s in a street. It has a little back garden, but nothing will grow there because it’s full of cats. “I have a governess. Her name is Miss Atkins. She comes every day at half-past nine, and gives me lessons till twelve. Then we go for a walk. But there are no nice walks here. In the afternoon I do needlework, and learn my lessons for the next day, and Miss Atkins goes at six o’clock. She has corkscrew curls, and her hair is sandy like Thomas, our cat. She is cross every arithmetic day, because I can’t do arithmetic. But she says it’s because I won’t, but that is not true. I like history and poetry, and all about the poets and writers. And especially Shakespeare. Sometimes I read out of Lamb’s tales for my reading lesson. I should like to read out of Shakespeare, but Miss Atkins won’t let me. She says it isn’t fit. I don’t know why she says this, because I have found a Shakespeare in father’s study, and some of it is beautiful. I like the Midsummer-Night’s Dream, and Romeo and Juliet. The Shakespeare is the only nice book in the house. Most of them are sermons, and about religion. “I’m going to put a wicked thing in this book, so I must be careful always to lock it up. _I don’t like religion._