olish thoughts for many pages, but
foolish thoughts of the kind that has kept this worn old world,
hanging for so many ages in space, from turning sour.

Later, in February, there is another entry that carries on the story:--

"Chris left this morning. He put a little packet into my hands at the
last moment, saying it was the most precious thing he possessed, and
that when I looked at it I was to think of him who loved it. Of
course I guessed what it was, but I did not open it till I was alone
in my room. It is the picture of myself that he has been so secret
about, but oh, so beautiful. I wonder if I am really as beautiful as
this. But I wish he had not made me look so sad. I am kissing the
little lips. I love them, because he loved to kiss them. Oh,
sweetheart! it will be long before you kiss them again. Of course it
was right for him to go, and I am glad he has been able to manage it.
He could not study properly in this quiet country place, and now he
will be able to go to Paris and Rome and he will be great. Even the
stupid people here see how clever he is. But, oh, it will be so long
before I see him again, my love! my king!"

With each letter that comes from him, similar foolish rhapsodies are
written down, but these letters of his, I gather, as I turn the pages,
grow after a while colder and fewer, and a chill fear that dare not be
penned creeps in among the words.

"March 12th. Six weeks and no letter from Chris, and, oh dear! I am
so hungry for one, for the last I have almost kissed to pieces. I
suppose he will write more often when he gets to London. He is
working hard, I know, and it is selfish of me to expect him to write
more often, but I would sit up all night for a week rather than miss
writing to him. I suppose men are not like that. O God, help me,
help me, whatever happens! How foolish I am to-night! He was always
careless. I will punish him for it when he comes back, but not very
much."

Truly enough a conventional story.

Letters do come from him after that, but apparently they are less and
less satisfactory, for the diary grows angry and bitter, and the faded
writing is blotted at times with tears. Then towards the end of another
year there comes this entry, written in a hand of strange neatness and
precision:--

"It is all over now. I am glad it is finished. I have written to
him, giving h