e, much discolored, but still in tolerable
preservation, from which he drew a small manuscript book.

Rosamond's disappointment was greater than before. "It is nothing but a
writing-book, after all," said she. "I wish you had not said anything
about the purse or slipper, and then I should never have thought of
them. You never heard anybody say where they thought the purse and
slipper were hid,--did you?"

"Come, Rosy," cried Mark, "come down to the meadow; there is nothing
more to be got out of the old well. Let us leave Brad alone with his
book and his fish."

The children turned away towards the meadow,--Rosamond meditating upon
the probability of her ever finding the purse and slipper, if she
should ever set out in quest of them, and Mark thinking what a fool
such a big fellow as Bradford must be, to mind any woman that ever was
born.

Bradford took the box and the book to the chestnut-tree, and,
stretching himself at full length in the shade, began to turn over the
leaves. It was a journal, written in a delicate, graceful hand; and
though the paper was somewhat yellow, and the ink faded, the writing
was perfectly legible. Bradford looked at it, carelessly reading here
and there a sentence, till his eye catching some familiar names, he
opened it at the commencement, and read as follows:--

"_December_ 31.--It is the last night of the old year. A few more
steps, and the old year will have vanished into the great hall of the
Past, where all the ages that ever have been are gathered. I have been
sitting the last hour by myself, and have fancied that time moved not
with its usual swiftness,--that the old year lingered with a sad
regret, as if loath to pass away and let the new come in. Even now the
midnight clock is striking,--eleven,--twelve;--the last flutter of the
old year's robe is out of sight, and the new year glides in with
noiseless feet, like one who enters the chamber of the dead. These are
but melancholy fancies;--because I am sad myself must I put all the
world in mourning? The old year did not linger;--it is only I that am
loath to go. I have been so happy here, that the prospect of spending
the coming year with Cousin Eleanor fills my mind with sad
forebodings;--and yet my childish remembrances of her have in them
nothing unpleasant. I think of her as a grave, quiet woman, who never
strove to attract and win the love of a child. How I shall miss the
life and gayety, the jests and laughter of Madge an