timate and sentimental. It is here that I would wish
to act as your adviser, and, if I may, as your confidential friend.
I shall always be glad, while these papers are being published,
to receive and answer any letters from young girls on questions of
sentiment and propriety. If we had no sentiment, life would not stand
thinking about; if we had no propriety, life would not stand talking
about. Of the two, propriety is, perhaps, for the woman the more
important, but I shall be glad to answer questions on both. And now
let me say a few words on the subject of the Young Girl's Diary.

[Illustration: (Young girl.)]

You must most certainly keep a Diary.

When I was a young girl of twenty-eight--it is not so very long ago--I
had my Diary bound in pale blue watered silk; it had three locks and a
little silver key which I wore on a riband round my neck. I never took
it off except to--I mean for the purposes of the toilette. There was a
pocket at the end of the book, which would hold a faded flower or any
little souvenir. I always wrote it in solitude and by night. Secresy
has its ritual, and it is infinitely sweet and consoling. If you
should ever choose to read any passage from your Diary to the dearest
of your girl-friends, the confidence becomes in consequence so much
more confidential; for she will know that you are reading to her what
was never intended for any human eye to see, and will enjoy it more.
If you have the least appreciation of what sentiment really means, if
you feel that you are misunderstood, or if you suffer from the most
sacred of all emotions, you will most certainly keep a Diary.

The entries in the Diary need not be of any great length. I once had
a dear girl-friend who, during the happy season of her first love,
became in the pages of her Diary almost entirely interjectional. I
think this was from natural delicacy. I was recently stopping at her
house, and owing to circumstances over which she had no control, I
am able to reproduce here the entries which she made in the few days
which culminated in her engagement.

"_September_ 6.--Why?"

You observe that she is puzzled to account for her own emotions, and
yet hesitates to give the inevitable solution. The intense reticence
of this entry seems to me peculiarly beautiful.

"_September_ 7.--I hate MARY BINDLER."

I can remember the circumstances very well, and I am inclined to think
that she had some reason to be jealous of MARY BINDLER. MARY