is our day. Oh, dear me! there is our day.

. . . . . . .

And how has Eunice succeeded in her second attempt at keeping
a diary? Here is what she has written. It has one merit that
nobody can deny--it is soon read:

"I hope papa will excuse me; I have nothing to write about
to-day."

Over and over again I have tried to point out to my sister
the absurdity of calling her father by the infantile nickname
of papa. I have reminded her that she is (in years, at least) no
longer a child. "Why don't you call him father, as I do?" I asked
only the other day.

She made an absurd reply: "I used to call him papa when I was
a little girl."

"That," I reminded her, "doesn't justify you in calling him papa
now."

And she actually answered: "Yes it does." What a strange state
of mind! And what a charming girl, in spite of her mind!


THIRD DAY.

The morning post has brought with it a promise of some little