oubt.

"Don't talk like that, Jack," I said hurriedly. "It is all nonsense. I
think a great deal of you as a friend and--and--all that, you know.
But I can never marry you."

"Are you sure, Kitty?" said Jack earnestly. "Don't you care for me at
all?"

It was horrid of Jack to ask that question!

"No," I said miserably, "not--not in that way, Jack. Oh, don't ever
say anything like this to me again."

He let go of my hands then, white to the lips.

"Oh, don't look like that, Jack," I entreated.

"I can't help it," he said in a low voice. "But I won't bother you
again, dear. It was foolish of me to expect--to hope for anything of
the sort. You are a thousand times too good for me, I know."

"Oh, indeed I'm not, Jack," I protested. "If you knew how horrid I am,
really, you'd be glad and thankful for your escape. Oh, Jack, I wish
people never grew up."

Jack smiled sadly.

"Don't feel badly over this, Kitty. It isn't your fault. Good night,
dear."

He turned my face up and kissed me squarely on the mouth. He had never
kissed me since the summer before he went away to college. Somehow it
didn't seem a bit the same as it used to; it was--nicer now.

After he went away I came upstairs and had a good, comfortable howl.
Then I buried the whole affair decently. I am not going to think of it
any more.

I shall always have the highest esteem for Jack, and I hope he will
soon find some nice girl who will make him happy. Mary Carter would
jump at him, I know. To be sure, she is as homely as she can be and
live. But, then, Jack is always telling me how little he cares for
beauty, so I have no doubt she will suit him admirably.

As for myself--well, I am ambitious. I don't suppose my ambition is a
very lofty one, but such as it is I mean to hunt it down. Come. Let me
put it down in black and white, once for all, and see how it looks:

I mean to marry the rich nephew of the Sinclairs.

There! It is out, and I feel better. How mercenary and awful it looks
written out in cold blood like that. I wouldn't have Jack or Aunt
Elizabeth--dear, unworldly old soul--see it for the world. But I
wouldn't mind Alicia.

Poor dear Jack!

* * * * *

Montreal, Dec. 16, 18--.

This is a nice way to keep a journal. But the days when I could write
regularly are gone by. That was when I was at Thrush Hill.

I am having a simply divine time. How in the world did I ev