The reader of these yellow pages, after seventy years and more, knows better than she knew then what was troubling her most, and can smile at what caused her so much concern. By the following Tuesday she resolved to “begin to think earnestly of _immediate_ future. Have not made any definite plans.” This necessity of planning for the immediate future brought back her bad feelings. She wrote on Wednesday, March 24: Think I shall not write as much in future. Grow dull and I fear selfish in my feelings and care less what is going on. Not that I think less of others, but less of myself, and am more and more certain every day that there is no such thing as true friendship, at least for me; and I will not dupe and fool myself with the idle, vain hobby any longer. It is all false; in fact, the whole world is false. This brings me to my old inquiry again, what is the use of living in it? I can see no possible satisfaction or benefit arising from my life; others may from theirs. A week later she wrote that she had no letters, but had “grown indifferent and did not care either to write or to receive letters.” She had resolved not to write so much, but she went on: I am thinking to-night of the future, and what my next move must be. Wish I had some one to advise me, or that I could speak to some one of it. Had ever one poor girl so many strange, wild thoughts, and no one to listen or share one of them, or even to realize that my head contains one idea beyond the present foolish moment? But she resolves to stop this vain and moody introspection: I will not allow myself any more such grumbling! I know it is wicked. But how can I make myself happy and contented under such circumstances as I am ever placed in? Her diary then grew irregular, with no entries between April 20 and May 25. Within that time she solved a part of her love-problem: Have kept no journal for a month or more. Had nothing to note, but some things are registered where they will never be effaced in my lifetime. But she finished her school successfully; went to Trenton and bought a silk dress. She filled the back of this book with a list of the English poets with the dates of their birth and death, and a sentence or two descriptive of each of the more prominent. She had this habit of writing, in the back of her journal, things that belonged to no one day. The volume previous contained a sentimental poem of a tragic parting of lovers, and a lachrymose effusion entitled “A Prayer for Death.”