ere I would take pecuniary aid from any. They all look cold upon me now, even my uncle. I have ever conducted myself respectfully—nay, even affectionately toward him; but, for some reason or other, he has altered toward me, and I have drawn myself again into my reserve. I have undoubtedly thwarted some cherished plan of his, with respect to Clare and Dudley; but even my _dependence_ on him—_gratitude_ will not be forced—will not allow me to regret what has happened. Oh! so contented—so blest am I—that cold looks from the world are unregarded, so long as I am conscious of his love. I had been sick, and sad, for two days and more; my heart and head seemed bursting, for I could hear, in my chamber (where sickness kept me prisoner) the sound of mirth and enjoyment going on below. Even the unwonted laugh of Clare was echoing merrily, as if my absence kindled a fire of joy in her bosom of ice; and my jealous heart told me she was happy, because of the attentions of Col. Dudley. I could not endure the thought of his wasting upon her one smile—one word beyond those of common civility. Very, very wicked was I on that bed of sickness; for every time I could hear the voice of Mrs. Dudley calling upon my cousin, in a gladdened tone, I would half utter aloud, “Yes! that vile old woman is satisfied now. She thinks he will love that icicle—that automaton.” Yes, wicked I was, indeed; but then, sick and suffering, I should have been treated with more sympathy by those under whose roof I then was eating the bread of dependence, it would have made it less bitter—not near so choking. _One_ ceremonious visit for the day from Clare—one message of inquiry from my uncle, was the sole interest that was bestowed upon me. How can it be wondered at, then, if my heart grew bitter toward them; ay, even to him, for if he inquired, it was never told me. But the bitterness I felt toward him was different from that which I felt toward my uncle and cousin. When I reflected on their conduct, there was a mingling of anger and revenge; when on him, the tears would rush to my eyes, an aching feeling to my heart, and I would say, “Could I only die now, would he shed one tear, or be saddened by the cold, pale face of her whom he must have known felt something for him beside mere friendship.” And then I would hide my eyes in the pillow, and weep in pity over the sad fate of myself which I thus pictured. As these bitter, bitter thoughts careered through my brain—increasing its ache—how did I sigh for the rest of the grave. “For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their _love_, and their hatred, and their envy is now perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the sun.” I snatched my journal—in my longing to unburthen myself of my weight of wo—and scribbled what I here transcribe, but which from shame I have since torn out: