Sept. 29th.  Capricious are the ways of womankind!  Little Ugly is more thoroughly self-occupied and undemonstrative than ever.  I am chagrined,—­I think I am an ill-used man.  I am downright angry and have half a mind to flirt with Little Handsome, out of spite.  Only Miss Etty is too indifferent to care.  I did but leave my old aunt to Flora, and step back to remark that it was a pleasant Sunday, that the sermon was homely and dull, and that the singing was discordant.  Miss Etty assented, but very coldly, and presently she bolted into an old red house, and left me to go home by myself.  When we started for church again, she was among the missing, and we found her in the pew, on our arrival.  Thus pointedly to avoid me!—­It might be accident, however, for she did not refuse to sing from the same hymn-book with me, and pointed to a verse on the other page, quaint, but excellent.  After all, old Watts has written the best hymns in the language.

Evening.  Without choice, I found myself walking round the pond again.  It was as smooth as glass, and the leaves scarcely trembled on the trees and bushes round it.  And in my heart reigned a similar calm.  A strange quiet has fallen on my usually restless and anxious mind.  I thought that in future I could be content not to look beyond the present duty, and, having done my best in all circumstances, that I could leave the results to follow as God wills.  At that moment I could sincerely say, “Let him set me high or low, wherever he has work for me to perform.”  If I can remain thus quiet in mind, my health will soon return, I feel assured.

“If!” A well-founded distrust, I fear.  This peace must be only a mood, to pass away when my natural spirits return.  The fever of covetousness, of rivalry, of envy, and ambitious earthly aspirations, will come back.  Like waves upon the lake, these uneasy feelings will chase each other over my soul.  I picked up a little linen wristband at this moment, which I recognized.  “She does not deserve to have it again, sulky Little Ugly!” said I.  “I will put it in my pocket-book, and keep it as a remembrancer, for—­I am glad to perceive—­this is the very spot where we stood when we agreed to remember it and each other fifteen years hence.  We will see what I shall be then, and I shall have some aid from this funny little talisman; it will speak to me quite as intelligibly and distinctly as its owner in a silent mood, at any rate.”—­

Heigh-ho!  How lonely I feel to-night!  Every human soul is—­must be—­a hermit, yet there might be something nearer companionship than I have found for mine as yet.  No one knows me.  My real self—­Ha! old fellow, I like you better than I did; let us be good friends.

Sept. 30th.  A golden sunrise.  How much one loses under a false idea of its being a luxury to sleep in the morning!  Reclining under Farmer Puddingstone’s elm, and looking upon the glassy pond, in which the glowing sky mirrored itself, my soul was fired with poetic inspiration.  On the blank page of a letter, I wrote: