constant gloom of this "Black Winter." Not possessing the requisite amount of elasticity, I am a very dismal object. Tom looks at me often, and shakes his head disapprovingly. "Too many balls," he says. "You were born for a quiet life, Dorris."
March 14.
Only a few more days and my brief respite will be over, and Mr. Thurber will return. In fact, he should be here to-day. As the time draws near, I shrink more and more from the necessary decision. Why is it that I cannot make up my mind? George could hardly assert that I set myself up on a pedestal now. I look upon myself as one of the weakest young women I have ever met, and I even plead guilty to a grain of coquetry. I am almost sure I shall feel sorry for it afterwards if I do not accept Chilton Thurber; and I know George will be painfully disappointed in me. It is not as if he expected to win me himself. That idea seems never to have occurred to him, though I did my best to make it dawn upon his mind when we were in Moscow.
He is strangely obtuse on that point. Having recovered from the severe attack of jealousy which I have recorded, he seems quite reconciled to looking upon me as Mr. Thurber's promised wife, and loses no opportunity of showing that he regards me in that light.
After all, why should I marry Mr. Thurber? I have been very happy as a single woman, while perhaps I should be less so if I married. It is not that I am afraid of being an old maid, for that prospect has never
