“Yes, dear Co, I plead guilty; for the fascination of Florence’s conversation, tinctured, too, with sadness, was sufficient to make any one forget their own identity. It was during that visit she narrated all that happened to her during our separation. But, as I am but little skilled as a _raconteuse_, I will, after Elsie has given us our tea, lend you her journal to glance over. She said, when she gave it to me, ‘This journal, my dear Mary, will bring me and my trials sometimes before your eyes; for I cannot bear to be utterly forgotten by the one being who has loved me through evil as well as good report. Besides, I think it sinful to remind myself, by looking over these blotted pages—which, strange incongruity as it may appear, I cannot bear the idea of destroying—as they make me unhappy and discontented, by recalling times past, that were better forever to lie buried in Oblivion’s stream.’ “There, Co, is the manuscript—rather formidable in its closely written pages; but to me, so full of interest, that I should have read it were it six times as long. So, read it to yourself, dear, after you have given me my tea, and then I will attend to my little domestic concerns; for though ’tis, indeed, but a ‘wee nest,’ yet the birds of the air do not minister to me.” “Thank you, dear aunty. Now, Elsie, my good Elsie, please hurry with the tea-waiter; for I am so famished with _curiosity_ to read these yellow leaves, that I will pardon any supper, if ’tis not _comme il faut_, if you will only hurry!” My readers will imagine the refreshment past—the wick of the lamp raised—the shade adjusted—and the fair Cora, with her head supported by one tiny hand, hid in a shower of curls, seated at the centre-table, in the most comfortable of all chairs, and deeply intent upon the pages of THE JOURNAL _Tuesday night, June._—Well, ’tis over. To-day I arrived in my new home; and setting aside my longing after a _home_-feeling, which I have ever felt since the death of my dear, dear mother, there is no place that promises more domestic enjoyments than Alton; especially if Clare, my cousin, will love me and let me love her. She is a pretty girl, not beautiful, I admit, but sufficiently comely. My good, kind uncle, too! I can love _him_, I know; for how careful—how very, very tender was he of my feelings on our road hither. My room, also, is very nicely arranged; and as I glance around, I think I may again be happy, _even_, though I am dependent on my uncle’s bounty. I must to sleep now, for I am too sleepy now for aught else.