an never be.

But I must bless and leave thee. I have promised to meet Gabriel at
the Post-office.

My last letter. No need to write again. Oh, Constantia, can it be
true? Yours in all truth,

EMILIA.

THE JOURNAL.

_June 3d, at evening._--I am weak, very weak. I never could carry
either joy or trouble pent up in my heart.

It has seemed sometimes of late that I must be stifled by the thing
that troubles me. Yet it is a trifling thing; nothing, I am sure,
but a foolish, wicked fear, a little disease within myself. If mamma
were here, I should just go and lay my head on her knees, and tell
her everything. Then she would stroke my eyes and bid me see reason,
and all would be well. O my little mother, O great and dear one, why
did you leave your child?

I remembered just now that it used to help me once to write things
down. That is what I must do. I will put it away from me; perhaps,
too, it will look so silly in solemn ink that I shall laugh at it
instead of screaming, as I did just now with my face on the pillow.
And now that it comes to the point, I am ashamed of saying it. My
love is making me mad; was there ever such a fool? I have been too
happy, that is the whole truth--far too happy. Poor things, we carry
grief well enough, cold grief; but hot joy cracks the frail vessel.

I have had a wonderful spring, with my two dearests; Constance
sweeter than ever she was, even during her long illness giving some
worth to the hours I might not spend with him, and he ever near.
Then, when we three were together, we were happy, too. How silly of
me to write "were"; they are still there, the summer days are long,
I love them so well, they hold me so dear.

I have not written it. No matter, I feel better; I already begin to
laugh at myself.

_June 4th._--Their eyes met once at supper, only once, and they did
not look at each other when they said good night. Which means most,
to look or not to look? I cannot read clearly yet. And one can
certainly twice ask the same person to pass the salt without its
meaning anything. This is very ugly in me; my better self is filled
with sorrow. Surely it must be in every one's power to quell the
visions of the inmost eye when they rise sinfully, to close their
ears against such whisperings as now I listen to.

I must fight this. Doubt is Love's murderer.

_June 6th._--Constance should not have said that; ther