iment. I wonder how long it will go on, and what will
come of it.

SECOND DAY.

I begin to be afraid that I am as stupid--no; that is not a nice word to
use--let me say as simple as dear Eunice. A diary means a record of the
events of the day; and not one of the events of yesterday appears in my
sister's journal or in mine. Well, it is easy to set that mistake right.
Our lives are so dull (but I would not say so in my father's hearing
for the world) that the record of one day will be much the same as
the record of another. After family prayers and breakfast I suffer my
customary persecution at the hands of the cook. That is to say, I am
obliged, being the housekeeper, to order what we have to eat. Oh, how I
hate inventing dinners! and how I admire the enviable slowness of
mind and laziness of body which have saved Eunice from undertaking the
worries of housekeeping in her turn! She can go and work in her garden,
while I am racking my invention to discover variety in dishes without
overstepping the limits of economy. I suppose I may confess it privately
to myself--how sorry I am not to have been born a man!

My next employment leads me to my father's study, to write under his
dictation. I don't complain of this; it flatters my pride to feel that I
am helping so great a man. At the same time, I do notice that here again
Eunice's little defects have relieved her of another responsibility.
She can neither keep dictated words in her memory, nor has she ever been
able to learn how to put in her stops.

After the dictation, I have an hour's time left for practicing music.
My sister comes in from the garden, with her pencil and paint-box, and
practices drawing. Then we go out for a walk--a delightful walk, if my
father goes too. He has something always new to tell us, suggested by
what we pass on the way. Then, dinner-time comes--not always a pleasant
part of the day to me. Sometimes I hear paternal complaints (always
gentle complaints) of my housekeeping; sometimes my sister (I won't say
the greedy sister) tells me I have not given her enough to eat. Poor
father! Dear Eunice!

Dinner having reached its end, we stroll in the garden when the weather
is fine. When it rains, we make flannel petticoats for poor old women.
What a horrid thing old age is to look at! To be ugly, to be helpless,
to be miserably unfit for all the pleasures of life--I hope I shall not
live to be an old woman. What would my father say if he saw thi