SECOND DAY.

I begin to be afraid that I am as stupid--no; that is not a nice
word to use--let me say as simple as dear Eunice. A diary means
a record of the events of the day; and not one of the events of
yesterday appears in my sister's journal or in mine. Well, it
is easy to set that mistake right. Our lives are so dull (but
I would not say so in my father's hearing for the world) that
the record of one day will be much the same as the record of
another.
After family prayers and breakfast I suffer my customary
persecution at the hands of the cook. That is to say, I am
obliged, being the housekeeper, to order what we have to eat.
Oh, how I hate inventing dinners! and how I admire the enviable
slowness of mind and laziness of body which have saved Eunice
from undertaking the worries of housekeeping in her turn! She
can go and work in her garden, while I am racking my invention
to discover variety in dishes without overstepping the limits
of economy. I suppose I may confess it privately to myself--how
sorry I am not to have been born a man!

My next employment leads me to my father's study, to write under
his dictation. I don't complain of this; it flatters my pride to
feel that I am helping so great a man. At the same time, I do
notice that here again Eunice's little defects have relieved her
of another responsibility. She can neither keep dictated words
in her memory, nor has she ever been able to learn how to put
in her stops.