over an hour. Her letters were unanswered, but she had
accomplished something better. Mary's tears had dried, as she listened
to these accounts of their frolics at boarding-school and their
adventures abroad, and in her interest in them her own affairs had taken
their proper proportion. She was no longer heart-broken over having been
discovered by Rob, and she was determined to overcome the sensitiveness
and self-consciousness which Betty had pointed out as her great fault.

As she rose to go, Betty opened a drawer in her desk and took out a
square, fat diary, bound in red morocco. "One of the girls gave me this
last Christmas," she said. "I never have used it, because I want to keep
my journals uniform in size and binding, and I'll be so glad to have you
take it and start a record of your own, if you will."

"Oh, I'll begin this very morning!" cried Mary, in delight, throwing her
arms around Betty's neck with an impulsive kiss, and trying to express
her thanks.

"Then wait till I write my text in it," said Betty, "so that it will
always recall my sermon. I've talked to you as if I were your
grandmother, haven't I?"

"You've made me feel a lot more comfortable," answered Mary, humbly,
with another kiss as Betty handed her the book. On the fly-leaf she had
written her own name and Mary's and the inscription borne by the old
sun-dial in Warwick Hall garden:

"_I only mark the hours that shine._"

It was after lunch before Mary found a moment in which to begin her
record, and then it was in unconscious imitation of Betty's style that
she wrote the events of the morning. Probably she would not have gone
into details and copied whole conversations if she had not heard the
extracts from Betty's diaries. Betty was writing for practice as well as
with the purpose of storing away pleasant memories, so it was often with
the spirit of the novelist that she made her entries.

"It seems hopeless to go back to the beginning," wrote Mary, "and tell
all that has happened so far, so I shall begin with this morning. Soon
after breakfast we went to Rollington in the carriage, Joyce and Betty
and I on the back seat, and Lloyd in front with the coachman. And Mrs.
Crisp cut down nearly a whole bushful of bridal wreath to decorate
Eugenia's room with. When we got back May Lily had just finished putting
up fresh curtains in the room, almost as fine and thin as frost-work.
The furniture is all white, and the walls a soft, cool