The best thing I can do is to wipe my pen, and shut up
my Journal, and go home by the next train.

. . . . . . .

I have a great mind to burn my Journal. It tells me that I had
better not think of Philip any more.

On second thoughts, I won't destroy my Journal; I will only put
it away. If I live to be an old woman, it may amuse me to open
my book again, and see how foolish the poor wretch was when she
was young.

What is this aching pain in my heart?

I don't remember it at any other time in my life. Is it trouble?
How can I tell?--I have had so little trouble. It must be many
years since I was wretched enough to cry. I don't even understand
why I am crying now. My last sorrow, so far as I can remember,
was the toothache. Other girls' mothers comfort them when they
are wretched. If my mother had lived--it's useless to think about
that. We lost her, while I and my sister were too young to
understand our misfortune.

I wish I had never seen Philip.

This seems an ungrateful wish. Seeing him at the picture-show was
a new enjoyment. Sitting next to him at dinner was a happiness
that I don't recollect feeling, even when Papa has been most
sweet and kind to me. I ought to be ashamed of myself to confess