I rather like writing in my journal after all, for here I can say what I think, and I guess I shall not let Zillah make the entries. Where did I leave off? Oh, about poor Tom. I have had a letter from him. He had just heard of my marriage, and only said, "God bless you, my darling little Daisy, and may you be very happy." I burned the letter up and cried myself into a headache. I wish people would not love me so much. I do not deserve it, for I know I am not what they think me to be. There’s Guy, my husband, more to be pitied than Tom, because, you see, he has got me; and privately, between you and me, old journal, I am not worth the getting, and I know it perhaps better than any one else. I do not think I am really mean or bad, but there certainly is in my make-up something different from other women. I like Guy and believe him to be the best man in the world, and I would rather he kissed me than Tom, but do not want any body to kiss me, especially a man, and Guy is so affectionate, and his great hands are so hot, and muss my fluted dresses so terribly. I guess I don’t like to be married anyway. If one only could have the house, and the money, and the nice things without the husband! That’s wicked, of course, when Guy is so kind and loves me so much. I wish he didn’t, but I would not for the world let him know how I feel. I did tell him that I was not the wife he ought to have, but he would not believe me, and father was anxious, and so I married him, meaning to do the best I could. It was splendid at Saratoga, only Guy danced so ridiculously and would not let me waltz with those young men. As if I cared a straw for them or any body besides Guy and Tom! It is very pleasant here at Elmwood, but the house is not as grand as I supposed, and there are not as many servants, and the family carriage is awful pokey. Guy is to give me a pretty little phaeton on my birthday.