ers.
Only the father left; he lives a dismal life on a lonely stormy coast.
Not a severe old gentleman, for all that. His reasons for taking to
retirement are reasons (so Mrs. Staveley says) which nobody knows. He
buries himself among his books, in an immense library; and he appears
to like it. His son has not been brought up like other young men,
at school and college. He is a great scholar, educated at home by his
father. To hear this account of his learning depressed me. It seemed to
put such a distance between us. I asked Mrs. Staveley if he thought me
ignorant. As long as I live I shall remember the reply: "He thinks you
charming."

Any other girl would have been satisfied with this. I am the miserable
creature who is always making mistakes. My stupid curiosity spoiled
the charm of Mrs. Staveley's conversation. And yet it seemed to be a
harmless question; I only said I should like to know what profession
Philip belonged to.

Mrs. Staveley answered: "No profession."

I foolishly put a wrong meaning on this. I said: "Is he idle?"

Mrs. Staveley laughed. "My dear, he is an only son--and his father is a
rich man."

That stopped me--at last.

We have enough to live on in comfort at home--no more. Papa has told us
himself that he is not (and can never hope to be) a rich man. This is
not the worst of it. Last year, he refused to marry a young couple, both
belonging to our congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self.
Helena and I asked him for his reasons. They were reasons that did not
take long to give. The young gentleman's father was a rich man. He had
forbidden his son to marry a sweet girl--because she had no fortune.

I have no fortune. And Philip's father is a rich man.

The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up my Journal, and
go home by the next train.

.......

I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had better
not think of Philip any more.

On second thoughts, I won't destroy my Journal; I will only put it away.
If I live to be an old woman, it may amuse me to open my book again, and
see how foolish the poor wretch was when she was young.

What is this aching pain in my heart?

I don't remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble? How can
I tell?--I have had so little trouble. It must be many years since I was
wretched enough to cry. I don't even understand why I am crying now. My
last sorrow, so far as I can remember, was the toothache. Oth