yesterday I dressed up grandly to-day, not only in
my tea-gown, but some beautiful old white Irish lace which nurse lent me
to wrap about my throat.

I think the effect was rather good, and when I went downstairs leaning
on nurse's shoulder, there was Martin waiting for me, and though he did
not speak (couldn't perhaps), the look that came into his blue eyes was
the same as on that last night at Castle Raa when he said something
about a silvery fir-tree with its dark head against the sky.

Oh, my own darling, I could wish to live for you, such as I am, if I
could be of any use, if I would not be a hindrance rather than a help,
if our union were right, if, in short, God Himself had not already
answered to all such questionings and beseechings, His great;
unalterable, irrevocable No!

* * * * *

AUGUST 2. The Reverend Mother, who arrived in the island last night, has
been with me all day. I think she _knows_, for she has said nothing more
about the convent--only (with her eyes so soft and tender) that she
intends to remain with me a little while, having need of rest herself.

To my surprise and joy, Martin and she have got on famously. This
evening she told me that, in spite of all (I know what she meant by
that), she is willing to believe that he is a true man, and,
notwithstanding his unhappy opinions about the Church, a Christian
gentleman.

Such a touching thing happened to-day. We were all sitting in the
garden, (sun warm, light breeze off the sea, ripe corn chattering in the
field opposite), when I felt a tugging at my skirts, and who should it
be but Isabel, who had been crawling along the dry grass plucking
daisies, and now, dragging herself up to my side, emptied them into my
lap.

No, I will not give way to tears any more as long as I live, yet it
rather "touches me up," as Martin says, to see how one's vainest dreams
seem to come to pass.

I don't know if Martin thought I was going to break down, but he rattled
away about Girlie having two other mothers now--Grandma, who would keep
her while we were down South, and the Reverend Mother, who would take
her to school when she was old enough.

So there's nothing more to fear about baby.

But what about Martin himself? Am I dealing fairly in allowing him to go
on with his preparations? isn't it a kind of cruelty not to tell him the
truth?

This problem is preying on my mind. If I could only get some real sleep
perhaps I