Europe as the smudge, from a printer’s blot in the corner which exists in no other copy.  Valued at three hundred guineas.  In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esq.”  Dozens of photographs of this sort, and all inscribed in this manner, were completed before I left Cumberland, and hundreds more remain to be done.  With this new interest to occupy him, Mr. Fairlie will be a happy man for months and months to come, and the two unfortunate photographers will share the social martyrdom which he has hitherto inflicted on his valet alone.

So much for the persons and events which hold the foremost place in my memory.  What next of the one person who holds the foremost place in my heart?  Laura has been present to my thoughts all the while I have been writing these lines.  What can I recall of her during the past six months, before I close my journal for the night?

I have only her letters to guide me, and on the most important of all the questions which our correspondence can discuss, every one of those letters leaves me in the dark.

Does he treat her kindly?  Is she happier now than she was when I parted with her on the wedding-day?  All my letters have contained these two inquiries, put more or less directly, now in one form, and now in another, and all, on that point only, have remained without reply, or have been answered as if my questions merely related to the state of her health.  She informs me, over and over again, that she is perfectly well—­that travelling agrees with her—­that she is getting through the winter, for the first time in her life, without catching cold—­but not a word can I find anywhere which tells me plainly that she is reconciled to her marriage, and that she can now look back to the twenty-second of December without any bitter feelings of repentance and regret.  The name of her husband is only mentioned in her letters, as she might mention the name of a friend who was travelling with them, and who had undertaken to make all the arrangements for the journey.  “Sir Percival” has settled that we leave on such a day—­ “Sir Percival” has decided that we travel by such a road.  Sometimes she writes “Percival” only, but very seldom—­in nine cases out of ten she gives him his title.

I cannot find that his habits and opinions have changed and coloured hers in any single particular.  The usual moral transformation which is insensibly wrought in a young, fresh, sensitive woman by her marriage, seems never to have taken place in Laura.  She writes of her own thoughts and impressions, amid all the wonders she has seen, exactly as she might have written to some one else, if I had been travelling with her instead of her husband.  I see no betrayal anywhere of sympathy of any kind existing between them.  Even when she wanders from the subject of her travels, and occupies herself with the prospects that await her in England, her speculations are busied with her future as my sister, and persistently neglect