“Beechwood, June 12th, }
11 o'clock P.M.

AT last, dear old book, repository of all my secret
thoughts and feelings, I am free to come to you
once more, and talk to you as I can talk to no
one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle
than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion
that to-morrow night some other voice than mine
would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, the darling, cried
himself to sleep because I was going away, while the
other children manifested in various ways their sorrow
at my projected departure. Bless them all, how I do
love children, and hope if I am ever married, I may
have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me
twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,—
as peevish as Margaret's six have made her, I should
rather be excused. But what nonsense to be written by

[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]

me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged twenty-eight,—the
Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went
home with me from the sewing society. But they were
mistaken, for if the family Bible is to be trusted, I was
only twenty-five last Christmas, and I don't believe I
look as old as that.”

Here there was a break in the diary, while Dora
glanced in the mirror at a graceful little figure, with
sloping shoulders and white neck, surmounted by a well
shaped head with masses of reddish-brown hair, waving
just enough to suggest an idea of the curls into which it
might be easily coaxed; low forehead; piquant nose,
with an undeniable curve which ill-natured people call a
turn-up; bright, honest eyes of reddish-brown, like the
hair; mouth which did not look as if it had ever said a
disagreeable thing; rows of white, even teeth, with complexion
remarkable for nothing except that it was natural,
and just now a shade or two paler than usual, because
its owner was weary with the months and years of
care which had fallen on her youthful shoulders.

This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the
tout ensemble a little approving nod, and pushing behind
her ears the heavy braids of hair to see if the style were
becoming, as somebody once had told her, she resumed
her pen and diary, as follows:

“Where was I when vanity stopped me for an inspection
of myself? Oh, I know; I had been writing

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things about being married, for which I ought to blush,
and through which I put my pen, so— But there's
what I said of Margaret; I'll let that stand, for she is
peevish and cross, and it's a relief to tell it somewhere.
Poor Margaret! I cannot help pitying her when I look
at her now, and remember what she used to be at the
dear old home,—so beautiful, so petted, and admired.
Ah me! that was twelve years ago, and I was a little
girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on the
lawn in the soft September sunlight, with papa looking
on, so happy and so proud; and then the bonfires they
kindled and the bells they rang at nightfall in honor of
the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas! when
next on a week day that bell was rung, it tolled for my
dear lost father, who died with apoplexy, and left his
affairs all in confusion, his property, which was reputed
so great, all mortgaged, and I a little beggar. Shall I
ever forget John Russell's kindness when, hurrying home
from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should
be his daughter, and should live with him and Margaret
at Beechwood, where we came eleven years ago this very
June,—Margaret a splendid-looking woman, who would
not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much
more becoming; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen,
who cried so much for the dear father gone, and the old
homestead sold, that people said I looked and acted
older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell. How

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glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie was born and
Margaret left him so much with me, for in my love for
him I forgot to mourn for father, and came to think of
him as safe in heaven, where mother went when I was
ten days old. Then those three delightful years at
school, when I roomed with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I
am going to-morrow to visit. No matter if there were
three babies here instead of one when I came home; and
it was very wicked in me to feel annoyed, because I was
so often expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in
fact turn nurse myself to the wee little things. I cannot
say that I was glad when Benny came, for with the advent
of each child, Margaret grew more delicate, more
helpless, and more,—I wonder if it is bad to say it,—
more fault-finding with her husband, who, though the
very best man in the world, is not like,—like,—well, say
like Dr. West.”

Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that
name, completely erasing it, after which it continued:

“I cannot tell why I should bring him up as a comparison,
when I do not like him at all, even if the whole
village of Beechwood is running mad about him,—I
mean the old people, not the young, who sneer at him
and call him stingy. If there's anything I hate, it's
penuriousness, which holds so fast to a three-cent piece
and hugs a battered sixpence. Don't I remember our
fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and how

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the girls, without the slightest reason for doing so, said
to me, `Now, when Dr. West comes in, you take possession
of him. You are just the one. He thinks more
of you than of all of us together. You can sell him that
dressing-gown and slippers. Ask fifteen at first, and if
he demurs, fall to ten. They were both given, so we
shall not lose. Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his
present gown and slippers are looking, and how the
ladies talk about it.'

“I did not believe he would come directly to my
table, and, I think now, the crowd must have pushed
him there, for come he did, looking so pleasant and kind,
and speaking so gently when he said he hoped we should
realize a large sum, and wished so much he could help us
more. Of course, the gown and slippers were thrust
upon his notice, so cheap, only fifteen dollars; and, of
course, he declined, saying, sotto voce:

“`I would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could,
but I cannot afford it.'

“Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and finally to
eight, but he held out firmly, notwithstanding that I told
him how forlorn he looked in his old ones, patched and
tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his face,
but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend
his things. It was surely my evil genius which prompted
me to retort in a pert, contemptuous tone:

“`Umph! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy

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old bachelors, who would quarrel about the pinmoney!
'

“I shall never forget how white he grew, or how
quickly his hand went into his pocket, as if in quest of
his purse; but it was withdrawn without it, just as that
detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along, smelling of
cologne, and musk, and brandy. I knew, to a certainty,
that he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded
into asking him to become an example of generosity to
Dr. West, and buy the gown and slippers. I'd take it
as a personal favor, I said, putting into my hateful eyes
as much flattery as I possibly could; and he bought
them, paying fifteen dollars right before Dr. West, who
said softly, sadly like:

“`I'm glad you have found a purchaser. I did not
wish you to be disappointed;' and then he walked
away, while that Colby paraded his dressing-gown and
slippers until I hated the sight of them, and could have
cried with vexation.

“Still, when later in the evening Dr. West came back
and asked me to go with him for ice-cream, I answered
saucily:

“`Thank you; I can't leave; and besides, I would not
for the world put you to so much expense!'

“If he was white before, he was livid now, and he has
never appeared natural since. I wish he knew how
many times I have cried over that affair, and how I

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detest that pert young Colby, who never has a patient, and
who called and called at Beechwood until Mrs. Markham,
across the way, sent in to ask who was so very sick.
After that I took good care to be engaged whenever I
heard his ring. Dr. West,—I wonder why I will persist
in writing his name when I really do not care for
him in the least; that is, care as girls sometimes care
for fine-looking men, with good education, good morals,
good manners, and a good profession. If I could rid
myself of the idea that he was stingy, I might tolerate
him; but of course he's stingy, or why does he wear so
shabby a coat and hat, and why does he never mingle in
any of the rides and picnics where money is a necessary ingredient?
Here he's been in Beechwood three, yes, most
four years, getting two-thirds of the practice, even if he
is a homœopathist. I've heard that he gives liberally to
the church, and he attends the extreme poor for nothing.
So there is some good in him. I wonder if he'll come
to say good-by. I presume not, or he would have reserved
that package sent by Johnnie, and brought it
himself instead. It is marked `Mrs. David West, Morrisville.
' Who in the world can Mrs. David West be?
I did not know he ever saw Morrisville, and I am sure
he came from Boston. There's the bell for midnight. I
have written the whole hour, and all of Doctor West,
except the ill-natured things I said of Margaret, and for
which I am sorry. Poor Madge, as Brother John calls

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her, she's sick and tired, and cannot help being a little
fretful, while I, who never had an ache or pain, can help
blaming her, and I will. I'm sorry, Sister Maggie, for
what I have written about you, and humbly ask your
pardon.”

p605-020

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