say his daughter, because old Dorothy informs me that for
half an hour one morning, at dawn, after a night during which I had been
very feeble, Miss Blunt relieved guard at my bedside, while I lay wrapt
in brutal slumber. It is very jolly to see sky and ocean once again. I
have got myself into my easy-chair by the open window, with my shutters
closed and the lattice open; and here I sit with my book on my knee,
scratching away feebly enough. Now and then I peep from my cool, dark
sick-chamber out into the world of light. High noon at midsummer! What a
spectacle! There are no clouds in the sky, no waves on the ocean. The
sun has it all to himself. To look long at the garden makes the eyes
water. And we--"Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and Nokes"--propose to paint that
kingdom of light. _Allons, donc!_

The loveliest of women has just tapped, and come in with a plate of
early peaches. The peaches are of a gorgeous color and plumpness; but
Miss Blunt looks pale and thin. The hot weather doesn't agree with her.
She is overworked. Confound it! Of course I thanked her warmly for her
attentions during my illness. She disclaims all gratitude, and refers me
to her father and Mrs. Dorothy.

"I allude more especially," said I, "to that little hour at the end of a
weary night, when you stole in like a kind of moral Aurora, and drove
away the shadows from my brain. That morning, you know, I began to get
better."

"It was indeed a very little hour," said Miss Blunt. "It was about ten
minutes." And then she began to scold me for presuming to touch a pen
during my convalescence. She laughs at me, indeed, for keeping a diary
at all. "Of all things," cried she, "a sentimental man is the most
despicable."

I confess I was somewhat nettled. The thrust seemed gratuitous.

"Of all things," I answered, "a woman without sentiment is the most
unlovely."

"Sentiment and loveliness are all very well, when you have time for
them," said Miss Blunt. "I haven't. I'm not rich enough. Good morning."

Speaking of another woman, I would say that she flounced out of the
room. But such was the gait of Juno, when she moved stiffly over the
grass from where Paris stood with Venus holding the apple, gathering up
her divine vestment, and leaving the others to guess at her face----

Juno has just come back to say that she forgot what she came for half an
hour ago. What will I be pleased to like for dinner?

"I have just been writing in my diary that you floun