g many pieces of verse, we say, were divers
other fragments, thoughts, and narratives, relating to a variety of
facts. We shall quote some of them, in order to explain the profound
impression that their perusal made upon Florine.

Fragments from the Diary.

"This is my birthday. Until this evening, I had cherished a foolish
hope. Yesterday, I went down to Mrs. Baudoin's, to dress a little wound
she had on her leg. When I entered the room, Agricola was there. No
doubt he was talking of me to his mother, for they stopped when I came
in, and exchanged a meaning smile. In passing by the drawers, I saw a
pasteboard box, with a pincushion-lid, and I felt myself blushing
with joy, as I thought this little present was destined for me, but
I pretended not to see it. While I was on my knees before his mother,
Agricola went out. I remarked that he took the little box with him.
Never has Mrs. Baudoin been more tender and motherly than she was that
morning. It appeared to me that she went to bed earlier than usual.
'It is to send me away sooner,' said I to myself, 'that I may enjoy
the surprise Agricola has prepared for me.' How my heart beat, as I ran
fast, very fast, up to my closet! I stopped a moment before opening the
door, that my happiness might last the longer. At last I entered the
room, my eyes swimming with tears of joy. I looked upon my table, my
chair, my bed--there was nothing. The little box was not to be found. My
heart sank within me. Then I said to myself: 'It will be to-morrow--this
is only the eve of my birthday.' The day is gone. Evening is come.
Nothing. The pretty box was not for me. It had a pincushion-cover. It
was only suited for a woman. To whom has Agricola given it?

"I suffer a good deal just now. It was a childish idea that I connected
with Agricola's wishing me many happy returns of the day. I am ashamed
to confess it; but it might have proved to me, that he has not forgotten
I have another name besides that of Mother Bunch, which they always
apply to me. My susceptibility on this head is unfortunately so
stubborn, that I cannot help feeling a momentary pang of mingled shame
and sorrow, every time that I am called by that fairy-tale name, and
yet I have had no other from infancy. It is for that very reason that I
should have been so happy if Agricola had taken this opportunity to call
me for once by my own humble name--Magdalen. Happily, he will never know
these wishes and regrets!"

Deeper and de