besides.  By embroidery-work I can easily make nine shillings more to put to that, and there is a fifth week provided for.  Surely, in five weeks’ time—­considering the number of things I can turn my hand to—­we may hit on some plan for getting a little money.  This is what I am always telling my husband, and what, by dint of constantly repeating it, I am getting to believe myself.  William, as is but natural, poor fellow, does not take so lighthearted view of the future as I do.  He says that the prospect of sitting idle and being kept by his wife for months to come, is something more wretched and hopeless than words can describe.  I try to raise his spirits by reminding him of his years of honest hard work for me and the children, and of the doctor’s assurance that his eyes will get the better, in good time, of their present helpless state.  But he still sighs and murmurs—­being one of the most independent and high spirited of men—­about living a burden on his wife.  I can only answer, what in my heart of hearts I feel, that I took him for Better and for Worse; that I have had many years of the Better, and that, even in our present trouble, the Worse shows no signs of coming yet!

The bead purse is getting on fast.  Red and blue, in a pretty striped pattern.

21st.—­A busy day.  We go to Appletreewick to-morrow.  Paying bills and packing up.  All poor William’s new canvases and painting-things huddled together into a packing-case.  He looked so sad, sitting silent with his green shade on, while his old familiar working materials were disappearing around him, as if he and they were never to come together again, that the tears would start into my eyes, though I am sure I am not one of the crying sort.  Luckily, the green shade kept him from seeing me:  and I took good care, though the effort nearly choked me, that he should not hear I was crying, at any rate.

The bead purse is done.  How are we to get the steel rings and tassels for it?  I am not justified now in spending sixpence unnecessarily, even for the best of purposes.

22d.-----

23d. The Farm of Appletreewick.—­Too tired, after our move yesterday, to write a word in my diary about our journey to this delightful place.  But now that we are beginning to get settled, I can manage to make up for past omissions.

My first occupation on the morning of the move had, oddly enough, nothing to do with our departure for the farmhouse.  The moment breakfast was over I began the day by making Emily as smart and nice-looking as I could, to go to the doctor’s with the purse.  She had her best silk frock on, showing the mending a little in some places, I am afraid, and her straw hat trimmed with my bonnet ribbon.  Her father’s neck-scarf, turned and joined so that nobody could see it, made a nice mantilla for her; and away she went to the doctor’s, with her little, determined step, and the purse in her hand (such a pretty hand that it is hardly to be regretted I had no gloves