n and preserve their remembrance.

It will be so interesting for us to read when a new life once more
begins for us, and we are _married_. Besides it is the _fashion_, and
all the young ladies she knows do it. And she has, she says, already
plenty to write down. Now I _should_ like to know what about.

When ought one to start such a record? Surely not on a day like this.

"Why _demme_" (as Mrs. Hambledon's nephew says), "_what the deyvil_
have I got to say?"

_Item:_ I went out shopping this morning with Mrs. Hambledon, and,
bearing Madeleine's advice in mind, purchased at Kelly's, in Sackville
Street, an album book, bound in green morocco, with clasp and lock,
which Mr. Kelly protests is quite secure.

_Item:_ We met Captain Segrave of the Royal Dragoons (who was so
attentive to me at Lady Rigtoun's rout, two days ago). He looked very
well on his charger, but how conceited! When he saw me, he rolled his
eyes and grew quite red; and then he stuck his spurs into his horse,
that we might admire how he could sit it; which he did, indeed, to
perfection.

Mrs. Hambledon looked vastly knowing, and I laughed. If ever I try to
fancy myself married to such a man I cannot help laughing.

This, however, is not diary.--_Item:_ We returned home because it
began to rain, and to pass the time, here am I at my book.

But is _this_ the sort of thing that will be of interest to read
hereafter? I have begun too late; I should have written in those days
when I saw the dull walls of our convent prison for the last time. It
seems so far back now (though, by the calendar it is hardly six
months), that I cannot quite recall how it felt to live in prison. And
yet it was not unhappy, and there was no horror in the thought we both
had sometimes then, that we should pass and end our lives in the cage.
It did not strike us as hard. It seemed, indeed, in the nature of
things. But the bare thought of returning to that existence now, to
resume the placid daily task, to fold up again like a plant that has
once expanded to sun and breeze, to have never a change of scene, of
impression, to look forward to nothing but _submission_, sleep, and
_death_; oh, it makes me turn cold all over!

And yet there are women who, of their own will, give up the _freedom
of the world_ to enter a convent _after_ they have tasted life! Oh, I
would rather be the poorest, the ugliest peasant hag, toiling for
daily bread, than one of these cold cloistered souls, so