MARCH 3.-If it were not for James I believe I should sink. He is so kind and affectionate, so ready to fill up the gaps Ernest leaves empty, and is so sunshiny and gay that I cannot be entirely sad. Baby, too, is a precious treasure; it would be wicked to cloud his little life with my depression. I try to look at him always with a smiling face, for he already distinguishes between a cheerful and a sad countenance. I am sure that there is something in Christ's gospel that would soothe and sustain me amid these varied trials, if I only knew what it is, and how to put forth my hand and take it. But as it is I feel very desolate. Ernest often congratulates me on having had such a good night's rest, when I have been up and down every hour with baby, half asleep frozen and exhausted. But he shall sleep at any rate. April 5.-The first rays of spring make me more languid than ever. Martha cannot be made to understand that nursing such a large, voracious baby, losing sleep, and confinement within doors, are enough to account for this. She is constantly speaking in terms of praise of those who keep up even when they do feel a little out of sorts, and says she always does. In the evening, after baby gets to sleep, I feel fit for nothing but to lie on the sofa, dozing; but she sees in this only a lazy habit, which ought not to be tolerated, and is constantly devising ways to rouse and set me at work. If I had more leisure for reading, meditation and prayer, I might still be happy. But all the morning, I must have baby till he takes his nap, and as soon as he gets to sleep I must put my room in order, and by that time all the best part of the day is gone. And at night I am so tired that I can hardly feel anything but my weariness. That, too, is my only chance of seeing Ernest and if I lock my door and fall upon my knees, I keep listening for his step, ready to spring to welcome should he come. This is wrong, I know, but how can I live without one loving word from him, and every day I am hoping it will come. MAY 2-Aunty was here to-day. I had not seen her for some weeks. She exclaimed at my looks in a tone that seemed to upbraid Ernest and Martha though of course she did not mean to do that. "You are not fit to have the whole care of that great boy at night," said she, "and you ought to begin to feed him, both for his sake and your own." "I am willing to take the child at night," Martha said, a little stiffly. "But I supposed his mother preferred to keep him herself." "And so I do," I cried. "I should be perfectly miserable if I had to give him up just as he is getting teeth, and so wakeful." "What are you taking to keep up your strength, dear?" asked Aunty. "Nothing in particular," I said. "Very well, it is time the doctor looked after that," she cried. "It really never will do to let you run down in this way. Let me look at baby. Why, my child, his gums need lancing."