A few days later: "To-day I heard from Miss Cowley" (this was the schoolmistress, as I knew from reference in the grandmother's letters). "She says I have acted wickedly and have forfeited all happiness in this world by marrying a beggarly Italian teacher. How my eyes flashed when I read '_beggarly Italian teacher_!' The cold-hearted thing would have cried with fear had she seen me. Luigi is out all day and he comes in tired, and to-night I thought he received my kiss coldly. But it must be my fancy. Oh, what a fancy I have! I think I shall go mad some of these days." The chronicle continued much in this strain through many entries. It recorded from time to time a letter from her grandmother inclosing five pounds, but repeating her assurance that she would have nothing more to do with her. Then the tone of the diarist grew more querulous; though her love for her husband deepened, so it seemed, in proportion as his fell off. "How can I help being jealous?" she wrote in one entry; "he is all day long away from me teaching other girls, any one of whom he may admire far above me and secretly love. When I told him this he seemed to shrink away from my look; and indeed it was passionate enough; and he cried out, half in Italian and half in English, 'God of mine! you will go mad if you do not keep that devil of a spirit of yours down!' I threw myself on his neck, and asked him never, never to cease to love me. His beautiful eye melted, and he fondled me with his exquisite grace. So I go to bed happy." If her husband earned money she seemed to benefit little from it; for some of her records ran, that she had to sit in the dark till he came home, for there was no candle in the house, she had no money to buy one, and the stingy landlady did not offer to lend her a lamp. "To-day I dined on bread-and-cheese and some of the potatoes left from yesterday, fried. If grandmamma knew this she would send me some money. But I'll not write to her about it. No, she shall think I am flourishing; and if I were dying with hunger I would just wish her to think I had plenty to eat." Up to a certain entry she continued writing of her husband in warm terms. She avowed her belief that she must be somewhat crazy to find him so fascinating. "Sometimes I think him more so than at other times," she wrote; but added, "if I am to regain my reason at the sacrifice of my love I would rather be mad." There was a good deal of pungent writing in these entries. I could find nothing to illustrate the slightest mental derangement. But her language was curiously characteristic, and the exhibition of a nature made up of warm and sudden passions, impulsive and generous, but vengeful and arbitrary too, was absolutely complete.