Music again, the forenoon occupation.  Miss Flora does not like being criticized, I find.  One must not presume to set her right in the smallest particular.  Singers are proverbially irritable!  I am not certain I could belong to a glee-club, and never get cross or unreasonable.  I hate to be corrected; but I hate more to be incorrect.  I could give Canary a hint or two now and then that would be serviceable, if she would permit it.  I have no right, however, to take it upon me to instruct her, and it puts her in a pet.  She laughed it off, but I saw the mounting color and the flashing glance.  I am an impudent fellow, I suppose.  Honest, to boot.  I think she need not take offence at what was intended as a friendly help.  I am no flatterer, at least.  Really, I am hurt that I might not take so trifling a liberty in behalf of my favorite song.  I’ll walk off as often as she sings it.  Can her temper be perfectly good?  And yet, one could not expect—­I ought not to be surprised.  Yet I can’t help thinking, suppose—­just suppose I had a right to find fault,—­suppose I were a near friend,—­would she bear it then?  Supposing she were my companion for life—­Humph! that startles one,—­was I near thinking of it in earnest?  She is beautiful; I should be proud of her abroad.  But at home,—­at home, where there should be confidence, would there not be constraint?  Must no improvement ever be suggested, because it implies imperfection?  I hope none of my friends will ever be on such terms with me; if I am touchy like a nettle, may they grasp me hard, and fear me not.

Sept. 26th.  This little sheet of water in front of the house has the greatest variety of aspects; its face is like a human face, full of varying expressions.  A slight haze made it so beautiful just before sunset, I took my chair, and put it out of the window upon the grass, then followed it, and sat with it tipped back against the house, close by the window of one of those mysterious rooms where Miss Etty immures herself.  I heard the Canary say in a scolding tone, “I should think you might oblige me; it is such a trifle to do, it is not worth refusing.  Why should you care for him!”

No answer, though I confess my ears were erected to the sharpest attitude of listening.  I was wholly oblivious of myself, or I should have taken myself away, as in honor bound.

“Won’t you now, Etty?  I’ll only ask for one of our old duets, just one.”

“No, Flora,” said Little Ugly, coldly enough.

“Why not?” No answer.

“To be sure, he might hear.  He would find out that you are musical.  What of that?  Where is the use of being able to sing, to sing only when there’s nobody to listen?”

“I sing only to friends.  I cannot sing, I have never sung, to persons in whom I have no confidence.”

“Afraid!  What a little goose!”

“Not afraid, exactly.”

“I don’t comprehend, I am sure.”