Well, he was here and Florence thought he was lovely. She came in for a few moments and then excused herself, so we had the time all to ourselves. I don’t know how I dared to do it, but it seemed as if something impelled me to, and I said, “Mr. Forsythe, I don’t believe you are as happy as you say you are. If you were you would not encourage yourself so much.” He was silent what seemed to me an interminable length of time and I thought, “Now, my lady, you have spoiled your chances to do a good work, by a word inopportunely spoken.” But I was wrong. He came over to me and sat down beside me on the couch. He took my hand in his and said, “Miss Montgomery, you are right, but you are the only one who has discerned it, or at least the only one who has said so.” Then I told him I was sorry I had been so abrupt, but he assured me that it was all right and that he was glad I had spoken because now he would feel free to talk the whole matter over with me. He said his wife was good and kind, in fact, I don’t know that he said anything but nice things, now that I stop to think of it. But, little diary, I think I have discovered the trouble. I don’t believe she understands him. She doesn’t appreciate the depth of his nature. It may be no fault of hers; she associates with him daily and feels herself so much a part of him that she has ceased to analyze him. It is not that he has ceased to be interesting to her, for she loves him devotedly, but it is the nature of a man to desire commendation and encouragement. He doesn’t wish it to be taken for granted that he is doing well, but wishes to hear words, words. A deep bond of sympathy exists between us. I understand and he feels that I understand. Oh, I am sure now that I can do good! MARCH 1. Well, little diary, you and I are going to return to Chicago Wednesday, back to our home and our work. I am not going to send Mr. Forsythe any word, but will surprise him by appearing in person at Mrs. Carter’s party Friday night I wonder how he will look and what he will say. MARCH 7. The last words I wrote the other night were, “I wonder how he will look, what he will say.” His face was a study, pleasure and surprise the dominant emotions. He said only three words as he clasped my hand in his. “Welcome home, Louise.” Louise! How he drew out the syllables. I never before realized that my name was musical. I asked him how all the family were and he said well and happy. Then he said Mrs. Forsythe was there and he wanted us to meet. She is lovely, and as they came up to me she was looking at him so fondly and proudly, I could see the devotion in her eyes. I couldn’t help feeling a sharp twinge of my conscience as I stood chatting to her, but I should not, for my intentions are the best, and if she knew all the circumstances she would commend me, I know. MARCH 16.