nor at what heart I
knocked!

A friend's lie hurts us even more than it humiliates us; it tells us
that we have not been understood and that we inspire distrust or fear. I
remember saying to her, one day:

"I would rather know that you hate me than ever feel that you fear me.
You must hide nothing from me, unless you want to wound me deeply; for
the person to whom we feel obliged to lie is much more responsible for
our lie than even we are."

But how can I hope that every one of my words will be remembered and
understood and turned to account! I enjoy talking into the soul of this
great baby as one likes singing in an unfurnished house; and I am none
the less conscious of the illusion of it all. If we are to influence a
fellow-creature, we do so best without aiming at it too carefully.
Success comes with time, by intercourse and example.

2

We are now on the threshold of autumn and the days are already short. By
seven o'clock, all the farms are sleeping....

When I left Rose yesterday, it was understood that she should sometimes
come to see me in the evening, when her day's work has not been too
hard. She is to come across the downs and tap at the shutters of the
room where I sit every evening after dinner.

To-day, I was hoping that she would not come and I gave a start of
annoyance when I heard her whisper outside the window:

"Mummy! Mummy, dear!"

It is a name which she sometimes gives me in play. Women who have no
children and do not expect ever to have any lend to all their emotions
an extra tenderness, an extra solicitude. It is that unemployed force in
our hearts which is striving for union with others.

Still, her affection displeased me this evening and, while I was putting
on a wrap, my hands trembled with irritation. Rose, thinking that I had
not heard her, raised her voice a little and repeated:

"Mummy! It's your little girl!"

I go out into the moonless, starless night, with my eyes still full of
the light indoors; and our hands meet blindly before exchanging a
pressure. She says good-evening and I kiss her without answering. I am
afraid of betraying my ill-humour; I feel that I am hard and spiteful,
but I hope that the mood will pass; and my anger, because it remains
unspoken, takes a form that favours forgiveness. If she confesses of her
own accord, without being impelled to do so by my attitude, I know that
my confidence in her will revive.

We walk in silence through the sombre ave