he monotonous thrumming of its wheels a
good way off. The scene is one of great animation, the machine is drawn
up against the conical-shaped haystack, its black smoke stretches out in
serpentine coils against the sky. A dozen men are busy about her: those
who work her, old Anderson, son Robert--a dreadful lout he is too, quite
unlike his sister--various other louts of the same calibre, the two
little boys, very much in everyone's way, and Mrs. Anderson and Annie,
who have just brought out jugs of ale. I naturally stop to say a few
words to Annie and watch the threshing. Anderson is grinding out some of
last year's oats for the cattle.

Son Robert comes to take a pull out of Annie's jug. "That's prime,
measter, ain't it?" he says to me, and wipes his mouth with the back of
his hand. I go in thoughtfully. Is son Robert exactly the sort of man I
should care to call brother-in-law?

April 11, 12.--These two days I have been casting up the pros and cons
of a marriage with Annie. Shall it be--or not be? I suffer from a
Hamlet-like perplexity. On the one hand I get a good, an amiable, an
adoring little wife, who would forestall my slightest wish, who would
warm my slippers for me, for whom I should be the Alpha and Omega of
existence. She would never argue with me, never contradict me, never
dream of laughing _at_ me; would never laugh at all unless I allowed
her, for she would give into my keeping, as a good wife should, the key
of her smiles and of her tears. But of course I should wish her to
laugh. I should wish the dear little creature to remain as merry and
thoughtless as possible. Dear Annie! what surprise and delight will
shine in your innocent blue eyes when I tell you my story! Your
childlike gratitude will be almost embarrassing. Last, and perhaps most
weighty pro of all--when Catherine hears of it she will be filled with
regret; yes, she may act indifference as gaily as she pleases, I am
convinced that in her heart of hearts she will be sorry.

Now for the cons; they, too, are many. As I said before, I should not
like son Robert to call me brother. I should find honest old Anderson
pere rather a trial with his red beard, his broken nails, the yawning
chasm between his upper teeth; even Mrs. Anderson, so comely and
pleasant here in her own farm-house, would suffer by being transplanted
to Lincoln's Inn. So might little Annie herself. A lapsed "h" in a
country hay-field has much less significance than when lost at