every respect to the first, was placed on the writing-table at my
end of the room. I opened my book. The sight of the blank leaves
irritated me; they were so smooth, so spotless, so entirely ready
to do _their_ duty. I took too deep a dip of ink, and began the
first entry in my diary by making a blot. This was discouraging.
I got up, and looked out of window.

"Helena!"

My sister's voice could hardly have addressed me in a more weary
tone, if her pen had been at work all night, relating domestic
events. "Well!" I said. "What is it?"

"Have you done already?" she asked.

I showed her the blot. My sister Eunice (the strangest as well as
the dearest of girls) always blurts out what she has in her mind
at the time. She fixed her eyes gravely on my spoiled page, and
said: "That comforts me." I crossed the room, and looked at
her book. She had not even summoned energy enough to make a blot.
"What will papa think of us," she said, "if we don't begin
to-night?"

"Why not begin," I suggested, "by writing down what he said,
when he gave us our journals? Those wise words of advice will be
in their proper place on the first page of the new books."

Not at all a demonstrative girl naturally; not ready with her
tears, not liberal with her caresses, not fluent in her talk,
Eunice was affected by my proposal in a manner wonderful to see.