lie
in sodden masses at the foot of the bare trunks, which cluster so
thickly on the lawn as to hide all view of the highroad. I was meant for
laughter and joy, flashing lights, and the splendors of ballrooms. Why
have I chosen, then, to give up the great world and settle down in this
grimmest of grim old houses in a none too lively village? I think it is
because I love Charles Knollys, and so, no matter how my heart sinks in
the dim shadows that haunt every spot I stray into, I will be merry,
will think of Charles instead of myself, and so live down the unhappy
prophecies uttered by the wretch who, with his venomous words, has
robbed the future of whatever charm my love was likely to cast upon it.
The fact that this man left the town to-day for a lengthy trip abroad
should raise my spirits more than it has. If we were going now, Charles
and I--But why dream of a Paradise whose doors remain closed to you? It
is here our honeymoon is destined to be passed; within these walls and
in sight of the bare boughs rattling at this moment against the panes.

I made a misstatement when I said that I had gone into all the rooms of
the house this afternoon. _I did not enter the Flower Parlor._

* * * * *

I had been married a month and had, as I thought, no further use for
this foolish diary. So one evening when Charles was away, I attempted to
burn it.

But when I had flung myself down before the blazing logs of my bedroom
fire (I was then young enough to love to crouch for hours on the rug in
my lonely room, seeking for all I delighted in and longed for in the
glowing embers), some instinct, or was it a premonition? made me
withhold from destruction a record which coming events might make worthy
of preservation. That was five years ago, and to-day I have reopened the
secret drawer in which this simple book has so long lain undisturbed,
and am once more penning lines destined perhaps to pass into oblivion
together with the others. Why? I do not know. There is no change in my
married life. I have no trouble, no anxiety, no reason for dread;
yet--Well, well, some women are made for the simple round of domestic
duties, and others are as out of place in the nursery and kitchen as
butterflies in a granary. I want just the things Charles cannot give me.
I have home, love, children, all that some women most crave, and while I
idolize my husband and know of nothing sweeter than my babies, I yet
have spel