chickens, and that pa has sold the little spotted calf. Somehow those things don’t interest me like they once did.
July 9.
The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I know he is making me look far too pretty in it, although he persists in saying he can’t do me justice. He is going to send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says he will make a little water-color copy for me.
He comes over every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he reads me lovely things out of his books. I don’t understand them all, but I try to, and he explains them so nicely and is so patient with my stupidity. And he says any one with my eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever. He says I have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. But I will not write down all the compliments he has paid me. I dare say he does not mean them at all.
In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don’t talk at all, but I never find the time long. Indeed, the minutes just seem to fly — and then the moon will come up, round and red, over the harbor and Mr. Osborne will sigh and say he supposes it is time for him to go.
July 24.
I am so happy. I am frightened at my happiness. Oh, I didn’t think life could ever be so beautiful for me as it is!
Paul loves me! He told me so to-night as we walked by the harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to be his wife. I have cared for him ever since I met him, but I am afraid I am not clever and well-educated enough for a wife for Paul. Because,
