cure.'"

So I have given up trying to talk things over with Sara. This old
journal will be better.

Last night Sara and I went to Mrs. Trent's musicale. I had to sing and
I had the loveliest new gown for the occasion. At first Sara thought
my old blue dress would do. She said we must economize this summer and
told me I was entirely too extravagant in the matter of clothes. I
cried about it after I went to bed. Sara looked at me very sharply the
next morning without saying anything. In the afternoon she went uptown
and bought some lovely pale yellow silk organdie. She made it up
herself--Sara is a genius at dressmaking--and it was the prettiest
gown at the musicale. Sara wore her old grey silk made over. Sara
doesn't care anything about dress, but then she is forty.

Walter Shirley was at the Trents'. The Shirleys are a new family here;
they moved to Atwater two months ago. Walter is the oldest son and has
been at college in Marlboro all winter so that nobody here knew him
until he came home a fortnight ago. He is very handsome and
distinguished-looking and everybody says he is so clever. He plays the
violin just beautifully and has such a melting, sympathetic voice and
the loveliest deep, dark, inscrutable eyes. I asked Sara when we came
home if she didn't think he was splendid.

"He'd be a nice boy if he wasn't rather conceited," said Sara.

After that it was impossible to say anything more about Mr. Shirley.

I am glad he is going to be in Atwater all summer. We have so few
really nice young men here; they go away just as soon as they grow up
and those who stay are just the muffs. I wonder if I shall see Mr.
Shirley soon again.

June Thirtieth.

It does not seem possible that it is only a month since my last entry.
It seems more like a year--a delightful year. I can't believe that I
am the same Beatrice Mason who wrote then. And I am not, either. She
was just a simple little girl, knowing nothing but romantic dreams. I
feel that I am very much changed. Life seems so grand and high and
beautiful. I want to be a true noble woman. Only such a woman could be
worthy of--of--a fine, noble man. But when I tried to say something
like this to Sara she replied calmly:

"My dear child, the average woman is quite good enough for the average
man. If she can cook his meals decently and keep his buttons sewed on
and doesn't nag him he will think that life is a pretty comfortab