or organised
charity. I have a pretty middling strong will of my own
("pigheadedness" Aunt Emmeline calls it!) and committees drive me daft.
They may be useful things in their way, but it's not my way. I want to
get to work on my own, and not to sit talk, talk, talking over every
miserable, piffling little detail. No! If I play fairy, I must at
least be free to wave my own wand, and to find my own niche where I can
wave it to the best advantage. The great, all-absorbing question
is--_where_ and _how_ to begin?

Advertisements are the orthodox refuge of the perplexed. Suppose, for
the moment, that I advertised, stating my needs and qualifications in
the ordinary shilling-a-line fashion. It would run something like
this:--

"Lady. Young. Healthy. Good appearance. Seeks occupation for a
loving heart. Town or country. Travel if required."

It sounds like an extract from a matrimonial paper. I wonder how many,
or, to speak more accurately, how _few_ bachelors would exhibit any
anxiety to occupy the vacancy. I might add "private means," and _then_
the answers would arrive in sacks, I should have the offer of a hundred
husbands, and a dozen kind homes, with hot and cold water, cheerful
society, a post office within a mile, and a golf course in the
neighbourhood. A hundred mothers of families would welcome me to their
bosoms, and a hundred spinsters would propose the grand tour and
intellectual companionship; but I want to be loved for myself, and in
return to love, and to help--

I am not thinking of marriage. Some day I shall probably fall in love,
like everyone else, and be prepared to go off to the Ural Mountains or
Kamtschatka, or any other remote spot, for the privilege of accompanying
my Jock. I shall probably be just as mad, and deluded, and happy, and
ridiculous as any other girl, when my turn comes; but it hasn't come
_yet_, and I'm not going to sit still and twiddle my thumbs pending its
approach. I'm in no hurry! It is in my mind that I should prefer a few
preliminary independent years.

Aunt Eliza drove over this afternoon to "cheer me up". She means well,
but her cheering capacities are not great. Her mode of attack is first
to enlarge on every possible ill, and reduce one to a state of collapse
from pure self-pity, and then to proceed to waft the same troubles aside
with a casual flick of the hand. She sat down beside me, stroked my
hand (I hate being pawed!) and set plaintively to wo