AUGUST 1.-When I took leave of Ernest I was glad to get away. I thought he would perhaps find after I was gone that he missed something out of his life and would welcome me home with a little of the old love. But I did not dream that he would not find it easy to do without me till summer was over, and when, this morning, he came suddenly upon us, carpet-bag in hand, I could do nothing but cry in his arms like a tired child. And now I had the silly triumph of having mother see that he loved me! "How could you get away?" I asked at last. "And what made you come? And how long can you stay?" "I could get away because I would," he replied. "And I came because I wanted to come. And I can stay three days." Three days of Ernest all to myself! AUGUST 5.-He has gone, but he has left behind him a happy wife and the memory of three happy days. After the first joy of our meeting was over, we had time for just such nice long talks as I delight in. Ernest began by upbraiding me a little for my injustice in fancying he had betrayed his father to Dr. Cabot. "That is not all," I interrupted, "I even thought you had made a boast of the sacrifices you were making." "That explains your coldness," he returned. "My coldness! Of all the ridiculous things in the world!" I cried. "You were cold, for you and I felt it. Don't you know that we undemonstrative men prefer loving winsome little women like you, just because you are our own opposites? And when the pet kitten turns into a cat with claws." "Now, Ernest, that is really too bad! To compare me to a cat!" "You certainly did say some sharp things to me about that time." "Did I, really? Oh, Ernest, how could I?" "And it was at a moment when I particularly needed your help. But do not let us dwell upon it. We love each other; we are both trying to do right in all the details of life. I do not think we shall ever get very far apart." "But, Ernest-tell me-are you very, very much disappointed in me?" "Disappointed? Why, Katy!" "Then what did make you seem so indifferent? What made you so slow to observe how miserably I was, as to health?" "Did I seem indifferent? I am sure I never loved you better. As to your health, I am ashamed of myself. I ought to have seen how feeble you were. But the truth is, I was deceived by your bright ways with baby. For him you were all smiles and gayety." "That was from principle," I said, and felt a good deal elated as I made the announcement. "He fell into a fit of musing, and none of my usual devices for arousing him had any effect. I pulled his hair and his ears, and shook him, but he remained unmoved." At last he began again.