I want to do it; I know I ought to do it; but I cannot. I go through the form of saying something that I try to pass off as praying, every day now. But I take no pleasure in it, as good people say they do, and as I am sure mother does. Nobody could live in the house with her, and doubt that. Jan. 10.-We are in our new home now, and it is quite a cozy little place. James is at home for the long vacation and we are together all the time I am out of school. We study and sing together and now and then, when we forget that dear father has gone, we are as full of fun as ever. If it is so nice to have a brother, what must it be to have a sister! Dear old Jim! He is the very pleasantest, dearest fellow in the world! Jan. 15.-I have come to another birthday and am seventeen. Mother has celebrated it just as usual, though I know all these anniversaries which used to be so pleasant, must be sad days to her now my dear father has gone. She has been cheerful-and loving, and entered into all my pleasures exactly as if nothing had happened. I wonder at myself that I do not enter more into her sorrows, but though at times the remembrance of our loss overwhelms me, my natural elasticity soon makes me rise above and forget it. And I am absorbed with these school-days, that come one after another, in such quick succession that I am all the time running to keep up with them. And as long as I do that I forget that death has crossed our threshold, and may do it again. But to night I feel very sad, and as if I would give almost any thing to live in a world where nothing painful could happen. Somehow mother's pale face haunts and reproaches me. I believe I will go to bed and to sleep as quickly as possible, and forget everything. Chapter 3 III July 16. My school-days are over! I have come off with flying colors, and mother is pleased at my success. I said to her to-day that I should now have time to draw and practice to my heart's content. "You will not find your heart content with either," she said. "Why, mother!" I cried, "I thought you liked to see me happy!" "And so I do," she said, quietly. "But there is something better to get out of life than you have yet found." "I am sure I hope so," I returned. "On the whole, I haven't got much so far." Amelia is now on such terms with Jenny Underhill that I can hardly see one without seeing the other. After the way in which I have loved her, this seems rather hard. Sometimes I am angry about it, and sometimes grieved. However, I find Jenny quite nice. She buys all the new books and lends them to me. I wish I liked more solid reading; but I don't. And I wish I were not so fond of novels; but I am. If it were not for mother I should read nothing else. And I am sure I often feel quite stirred up by a really good novel, and admire and want to imitate every high-minded, noble character it describes.