Dolly came and sat with me for a little, but we hadn't said much before Mrs. Antoine brought a message from my uncle asking her to go down to tea. 'What are you all doing?' I asked. 'Oh, just sitting round the fire not talking,' she said, smiling. '_Not_ talking?' I said, surprised. But she was gone. Perhaps, I thought, they're not talking for fear of disturbing me. This really was most considerate. As for Uncle Rudolph, he hasn't even tried to come and see me. The only sign of life he has made was to send me the current number of the _Nineteenth Century_ he brought out with him, in which he has an article,--a very good one. Else he too has been quite quiet; and I have read, and I have pondered, and I have written this, and now it really is bedtime and I'm going to sleep. Well, a whole day has been gained anyhow, and I have had hours and hours of complete peace. Rather a surprising lot of peace, really. It _is_ rather surprising, I think. I mean, that they haven't wanted to come and see me more. Nobody has even been to say goodnight to me. I think I like being said goodnight to. Especially if nobody does say it. _October 2nd._ Twenty-four hours sometimes produce remarkable changes. These have. Again it is night, and again I'm in my room on my way to going to sleep; but before I get any sleepier I'll write what I can about to-day, because it has been an extremely interesting day. I knew that what we wanted was a man. At breakfast, to which I proceeded punctually, refreshed by my retreat yesterday, armed from head to foot in all the considerations I had collected during those quiet hours most likely to make me immune from Uncle Rudolph's inevitable attacks, having said my prayers and emptied my mind of weakening memories, I found my three guests silent. Uncle Rudolph's talkativeness, so conspicuous at yesterday's breakfast, was confined at to-day's to saying grace. Except for that, he didn't talk at all. And neither, once having said her Amen, did Mrs. Barnes. Neither did Dolly, but then she never does. 'I've not got a headache,' I gently said at last, looking round at them. Perhaps they were still going on being considerate, I thought. At least, perhaps Mrs. Barnes was. My uncle's silence was merely ominous of what I was in for, of how strongly, after another night's thinking it out, he felt about my affairs and his own lamentable connection with them owing to God's having given me to him for a niece. But Mrs. Barnes--why didn't _she_ talk? She couldn't surely intend, because once I had a headache, to go on tiptoe for the rest of our days together? Nobody having taken any notice of my first announcement I presently said, 'I'm very well indeed, thank you, this morning.' At this Dolly laughed, and her eyes sent little morning kisses across to me. She, at least, was in her normal state. 'Aren't you--' I looked at the other two unresponsive breakfasting heads--'aren't you glad?'