then Mr. P. called--then Miss ---- teased me to
love her and kept me in her paws till the bell rang for tea. Why can't I
like her? I should be so ashamed if I should find out after all that
she is as good as she _seems_, but I never did get cheated yet when I
trusted my own mother wits, my instinct, or whatever it is by which I
know folks--and she is found wanting by this something.

_28th_.--Mrs. Persico has comforted me to-day. She says Mr. T. came to
Mr. P. with tears in his eyes (could such a man shed tears?) and told
him that I should be the salvation of his child--that she was already
the happiest and most altered creature, and begged him to tell me so. I
was ashamed and happy too--but I think Mr. P. should have told him
that if good has been done to Nannie, it is _as_ much--to say the
least--owing to Louisa as to me. L. always joins me in everything I do
and say for her, and I would not have even an accident deprive her of
her just reward for anything. Nannie sat on the floor to-night in her
night-gown, thinking. At last she said, "Miss Payson?" "Well, little
witch?" "You wouldn't care much if you should die to-night, should you?"
"No, I think not." "Nor I," said she. "Why, do you think you should be
better off than you are here?" "Yes, in heaven," said she. "Why how do
you know you'll go to heaven?" She looked at me seriously and said, "Oh,
I don't know--I don't know--I don't think I should like to go to the
other place." We had then a long talk with her and it seems she's a
regular little believer in Purgatory--but I wouldn't dispute with her. I
guess there's a way of getting at her heart better than that.... Why is
it that I have such a sensitiveness on religious points, such a dread of
having my own private aims and emotions known by those about me? Is it
right? I should like to be just what the Christian ought to be in these
relations. Miss ---- expects me to make speeches to her, but I _can
not_. If I thought I knew ever so much, I could not, and she annoys me
so. Oh, I wish it didn't hurt my soul so to touch it! It's just like
a butterfly's wing--people can't help tearing off the very invisible
_down_ so to speak, for which they take a fancy to it, if they get it
between fingers and thumb, and so I have to suffer for their curiosity's
sake. Am I bound to reveal my heart-life to everybody who asks? Must I
not believe that the heavenly love may, in one sense, be _hidden_ from
outward eye and outward touch? or