er to my Heart.

JANUARY 15TH. I am alone in my BOUDOIR (which is realy the old
schoolroom, and used now for a sowing room).

My very soul is sick, oh Dairy. How can I face the truth? How write it
out for my eyes to see? But I must. For SOMETHING MUST BE DONE. The play
is failing.

The way I discovered it was this. Yesterday, being short of money, I
sold my amethist pin to Jane, one of the housemaids, for two dollars,
throwing in a lace coller when she seemed doubtful, as I had a special
purpose for useing funds. Had father been at home I could have touched
him, but mother is diferent.

I then went out to buy a frame for his picture, which I had repaired by
drawing in the other eye, although licking the Fire and passionate look
of the originle. At the shop I was compeled to show it, to buy a frame
to fit. The clerk was almost overpowered.

"Do you know him?" she asked, in a low and throbing tone.

"Not intimitely," I replied.

"Don't you love the Play?" she said. "I'm crazy about it. I've been back
three times. Parts of it I know off by heart. He's very handsome. That
picture don't do him justise."

I gave her a searching glanse. Was it posible that, without any
acquaintance with him whatever, she had fallen in love with him? It was
indeed. She showed it in every line of her silly face.

I drew myself up hautily. "I should think it would be very expencive,
going so often," I said, in a cool tone.

"Not so very. You see, the play is a failure, and they give us girls
tickets to dress the house. Fill it up, you know. Half the girls in the
store are crazy about Mr. Egleston."

My world shuddered about me. What--fail! That beautiful play, ending "My
darling, my woman"? It could not be. Fate would not be cruel. Was there
no apreciation of the best in Art? Was it indeed true, as Miss Everett
has complained, although not in these exact words, that the Theater was
only supported now by chorus girls' legs, dancing about in uter ABANDON?

With an expression of despair on my features, I left the store, carrying
the Frame under my arm.

One thing is certain. I must see the play again, and judge it with a
criticle eye. IF IT IS WORTH SAVING, IT MUST BE SAVED.

JANUARY 16TH. Is it only a day since I saw you, Dear Dairy? Can so much
have happened in the single lapse of a few hours? I look in my mirror,
and I look much as before, only with perhaps a touch of paller. Who
would not be pale?

I have seen HIM again, a