Bradford took the box and the book to the chestnut-tree, and, stretching himself at full length in the shade, began to turn over the leaves. It was a journal, written in a delicate, graceful hand; and though the paper was somewhat yellow, and the ink faded, the writing was perfectly legible. Bradford looked at it, carelessly reading here and there a sentence, till his eye catching some familiar names, he opened it at the commencement, and read as follows:-- "_December_ 31.--It is the last night of the old year. A few more steps, and the old year will have vanished into the great hall of the Past, where all the ages that ever have been are gathered. I have been sitting the last hour by myself, and have fancied that time moved not with its usual swiftness,--that the old year lingered with a sad regret, as if loath to pass away and let the new come in. Even now the midnight clock is striking,--eleven,--twelve;--the last flutter of the old year's robe is out of sight, and the new year glides in with noiseless feet, like one who enters the chamber of the dead. These are but melancholy fancies;--because I am sad myself must I put all the world in mourning? The old year did not linger;--it is only I that am loath to go. I have been so happy here, that the prospect of spending the coming year with Cousin Eleanor fills my mind with sad forebodings;--and yet my childish remembrances of her have in them nothing unpleasant. I think of her as a grave, quiet woman, who never strove to attract and win the love of a child. How I shall miss the life and gayety, the jests and laughter of Madge and Bertha! Madge the more, because she is so full of whims and oddities. To-night she came into my room, and brought this little book for me to write a journal of all that befell me while I was gone, making me promise to write often in it. Not that she ever wished to see it again. Heaven forbid that she should ever be so cruelly punished as to be made to read anybody's journal!--least of all such a stupid one as mine must be, shut up with Cousin Eleanor!--but she thought that I could never draw the book from the case (she had chosen one that fitted very tightly, and would give me much trouble for that very reason) without thinking of her;--and to be thought of often by her friends she confesses she is weak enough to wish.--Dear Madge, I could not forget her, if I would. The book just fits in a little japanned box that belonged to my grandmother, in which she used to keep rouge and pearl-powder. I will keep it in that, and remember my promise to Madge.