The Professor has been here to-day. He is the most delightful companion I know; and, what is his special charm, he really believes that he is hard and cynical, the tender-hearted old baby! I know that he fancies himself a second Diogenes. His liking for us boys is very queer to me. Tom is his pet, but he prefers to talk to me. He discusses Tom with me, and then he discusses me, just as if I were a third person. To-day he told me I was a mass of selfish pettinesses. I don’t think that was his word, but that was what he meant; “and yet,” said he, “you are capable of heroic generosity.” I always know that part of what the Professor says is said in earnest; but I am never quite sure what part it is. He doesn’t fatigue me, and doesn’t excite me, and it is well for me that he is here; still, I am impatient to get back again. He has told me about Tom’s staying with me, instead of going home. I don’t know what to say about it; I don’t know what to think. It makes me want to die for him; nothing else that I can do seems sufficient. When this war is over, I suppose Tom will marry and forget me. I never will go near his wife――I shall hate her. Now, that is a very silly thing for a lieutenant-colonel to write. I don’t care, it is true. * * * * * I wonder if I am so very selfish, after all. I like refinement and elegance, and I hate dirt; and I do like to have people care for me and do things to oblige me. But my first thought is not always of myself; and I don’t think I am unjust to others, because of myself. And, if I desire the sympathy and appreciation of others, I am sure it is not wrong. “_C’est qu’un cœur bien atteint veut qu’on soit tout à lui._” I can’t remember, though, just now, a single unselfish thing that I have ever done, unless it was giving some of the fruit and jelly that the Professor brought me yesterday to a poor fellow with hungry eyes, whom I saw glaring at them through the door. That wouldn’t have been generous, either, if he hadn’t been a rebel. Giving aid and comfort to the enemy is the only generous action that I can discover of mine, after all my self-analysis. Confound self-analysis, any way! It is only another form of selfishness, mingled with morbid conceit. If I did what I ought to do, without thinking about myself at all, it would be better for me; but I haven’t anything to do just now, except scribble away here, and it is dreadfully stupid.