them what ought I to do? I don't know; I am certain of nothing,
except what I have put in at the top of page one: I love him,
I love him, I love him."

. . . . . . .

There this very curious entry ended. It was easy enough to
discover the influence which had made my slow-minded sister
so ready with her memory and her pen--so ready, in short, to
do anything and everything, provided her heart was in it, and
her father was in it.

But Eunice is wrong, let me tell her, in what she says of myself.

I, too, have seen the sad change in my father; but I happen to
know that he dislikes having it spoken of at home, and I have
kept my painful discoveries to myself. Unhappily, the best
medical advice is beyond our reach. The one really competent
doctor in this place is known to be an infidel. But for that
shocking obstacle I might have persuaded my father to see him.
As for the other two doctors whom he has consulted, at different
times, one talked about suppressed gout, and the other told him
to take a year's holiday and enjoy himself on the Continent.

The clock has just struck twelve. I have been writing and copying
till my eyes are heavy, and I want to follow Eunice's example and
sleep as soundly as she does. We have made a strange beginning
of this journalizing experiment. I wonder how long it will go on,
and what will come of it.