I do not believe I am deceitful, though all my life I have seen my parents try to seem what they are not; that is, try to seem like rich people, when sometimes father’s practice brought him only a few hundreds a year, and there was mother and myself and Tom to support. Tom is my cousin,—Tom McDonald—who lived with us and fell in love with me, though I never tried to make him. But I liked him ever so much, even if he did use to tease me horridly, and put horn-bugs in my shoes, and worms on my neck, and jack-o’lanterns in my room, and tip me off his sled into the snow; for with all his teasing, he had a great, kind, unselfish heart, and I shall never forget that look on his face when I told him I could not be his wife. I did not like him as he liked me, and I did not want to be married any way. I could not bear the thought of being tied up to some man, and if I did marry it must be to somebody who was rich. That was in Chicago, and the night before Tom started for South America, where he was going to make his fortune, and he wanted me to promise to wait for him, and said no one would ever love me as well as he did. I could not promise, because, even if he had all the gold mines in Peru, I did not care to spend my days with him,—to see him morning, noon and night, and all the time. It is a good deal to ask of a woman, and I told him so, and he cried so hard,—not loud, but in a pitiful kind of way, which hurt me cruelly. I hear that sobbing sometimes now in my sleep, and it’s like the moan of the wind round that house on the prairie where Tom’s mother died. Poor Tom! I gave him a lock of my hair and let him kiss me twice, and then he went away, and after that old Judge Burton offered himself and his million to me; but I could not endure his bald head a week, I should hate him awfully and I told him no; and when father seemed sorry and said I missed it, I told him I would not sell myself for gold alone,—I’d run away first and go after Tom, who was young and just bearable. Then Guy Thornton came, and—and—well, he took me by storm, and I liked him better than any one I had ever seen, though I would rather have him for my friend,—my beau, whom I could order around and get rid of when I pleased, but I married him. Everybody said he was rich, and father was satisfied and gave his consent, and bought me a most elaborate trousseau. I wondered then where the money came from. Now, I know that _Tom_ sent it. He has been very successful with his mine, and in a letter to father sent me a check for fifteen hundred dollars. Father would not tell me that, but mother did, and I felt worse, I think, than when I heard the sobbing. Poor Tom! I never wear one of the dresses now without thinking who paid for it and wrote in his letter, "I am working like an ox for Daisy." Poor Tom! ———— October 1st, 18—.