"Lady. Young. Healthy. Good appearance. Seeks occupation for a loving heart. Town or country. Travel if required." It sounds like an extract from a matrimonial paper. I wonder how many, or, to speak more accurately, how _few_ bachelors would exhibit any anxiety to occupy the vacancy. I might add "private means," and _then_ the answers would arrive in sacks, I should have the offer of a hundred husbands, and a dozen kind homes, with hot and cold water, cheerful society, a post office within a mile, and a golf course in the neighbourhood. A hundred mothers of families would welcome me to their bosoms, and a hundred spinsters would propose the grand tour and intellectual companionship; but I want to be loved for myself, and in return to love, and to help-- I am not thinking of marriage. Some day I shall probably fall in love, like everyone else, and be prepared to go off to the Ural Mountains or Kamtschatka, or any other remote spot, for the privilege of accompanying my Jock. I shall probably be just as mad, and deluded, and happy, and ridiculous as any other girl, when my turn comes; but it hasn't come _yet_, and I'm not going to sit still and twiddle my thumbs pending its approach. I'm in no hurry! It is in my mind that I should prefer a few preliminary independent years. Aunt Eliza drove over this afternoon to "cheer me up". She means well, but her cheering capacities are not great. Her mode of attack is first to enlarge on every possible ill, and reduce one to a state of collapse from pure self-pity, and then to proceed to waft the same troubles aside with a casual flick of the hand. She sat down beside me, stroked my hand (I hate being pawed!) and set plaintively to work. "_Poor dear_! I know you are feeling desolate. It's so hard for you, isn't it, dear, having no other brother or sister? Makes it all the harder, doesn't it, dear! And Kathie _leant_ on you so! You must feel that your work is gone. Stranded! That's the feeling, isn't it? I _do_ understand. But"--(sudden change to major key)--"_she_ is happy! You must forget yourself in her joy!" I said, "Oh! yes," and removed my hand under pretence of feeling for a handkerchief. Her face lengthened again, and she drew a deep sigh. (Minor.) "I always feel it is the last straw for a woman when she has to give up her home in a time of trouble. A home is a refuge, and you have made The Clough so charming. It will be a wrench to move all the dear old furniture, and to leave the garden where you and Kathie were so happy together. Wherever you look, poor dear, you must feel a fresh stab. Associations!--so precious, aren't they, to a woman's heart? (Major.) But material things are of _small_ value, after all, dear. We learn that as we grow _old_! A true woman can make a home wherever she goes--" "I--I suppose she can."