me? It
makes me go hot and cold just to think of it, and my heart thumps with
agitation. I don't feel happy exactly, but very excited and important.
I have such a lonely feeling sometimes, and I do so long for someone to
love me best of all. At home, though they are all kind enough, I am
always second fiddle, if not third, and it is nice to be appreciated! I
could never care for Wallace in that way, but I like him to like me. It
makes things interesting, and I was feeling very flat and dejected, and
in need of something to cheer me up. Of course, I don't want to do
anything wrong, but Wallace is so young, only twenty-four, and has no
money, so he couldn't think of being married or anything silly like
that; besides, I've heard it is good for boys to have a fancy for a nice
girl--it keeps them steady.

In any case, I have promised to stay on for another fortnight, and I
couldn't alter my mind and go away now without making a fuss, and if I
stay I can't be disagreeable, so I must just behave as if Lorna had
never repeated that stupid remark. I dare say, if the truth were known,
Wallace has fancied himself in love with half-a-dozen girls before now,
and it would be ridiculous of me to imagine anything serious. Anyway, I
don't care. I have thought of nothing but other people for months back,
and they don't seem to miss me a bit, but only hope I won't hurry back.
I'm tired of it. Now I am going to enjoy myself, and I don't care what
happens!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

It is ten days since I wrote anything in this diary, and to-night, when
I opened it in my misery, hoping to find some comfort in writing down my
thoughts, the first thing that met my eyes were those dreadful words, "I
am going to enjoy myself, and I don't care what happens." Enjoy myself,
indeed! I have never been so miserable in my life. I never knew before
what misery meant, even on that awful night of the fire, when we didn't
know whether Vere would live or die. Troubles with which one has
nothing to do, which come, as it were, straight from God, can never make
one feel like this. There is no remorse in them, and no guilt, and no
burning, intolerable shame.

What would Miss Bruce think of her pupil now? What would father think?
What would Rachel--"the best woman in the world"--think of me to-night?

I am going to make myself write it all down, and then, if I ever try to
gloss it over to myself or others in the future, this written account