September 4th.—I have just had a long letter from my dear Clara, answering the letter which I sent the day before yesterday. I have no notion how she arrived at the conclusion, but this is it:

"Unconsciously perhaps, you are very much in love with Cecil Vanstoun Merle."

What magic there is in those words! I think I have read them over a hundred times, and it makes me tremble to write them down. I cannot imagine how she guessed it. She must have great insight in these things, or she would never have discovered my feelings from my letter. I had hardly guessed them myself. Well, this is my own diary, and no one but myself will ever read it; so I will write down my confession. I love Cecil Vanstoun Merle. I love him more than any one or anything in the whole world. I could never, never, never love any one else. And he has not yet shown me plainly that he loves me. Consequently, I have no right to love him.

I won't love him.

I can't help loving him.

I should like just to sit down and cry forever and ever. I am very unhappy. And yet I am not sure that I shall not in the end be very happy indeed, if I only follow the plan which dear Clara has made out for me—the plan of campaign, she calls it. She is so wise, and