for it will be an awful swot to write it when I have so many things
to think of now. Aunt Janet, I suppose, will like to keep it locked
up for me, as she does with all my journals and papers. That is one
good thing about Aunt Janet amongst many: she has no curiosity, or
else she has some other quality which keeps her from prying as other
women would. It would seem that she has not so much as opened the
cover of one of my journals ever in her life, and that she would not
without my permission. So this can in time go to her also.

I dined last night with Mr. Trent, by his special desire. The dinner
was in his own rooms. Dinner sent in from the hotel. He would not
have any waiters at all, but made them send in the dinner all at
once, and we helped ourselves. As we were quite alone, we could talk
freely, and we got over a lot of ground while we were dining. He
began to tell me about Uncle Roger. I was glad of that, for, of
course, I wanted to know all I could of him, and the fact was I had
seen very little of him. Of course, when I was a small kid he was
often in our house, for he was very fond of mother, and she of him.
But I fancy that a small boy was rather a nuisance to him. And then
I was at school, and he was away in the East. And then poor mother
died while he was living in the Blue Mountains, and I never saw him
again. When I wrote to him about Aunt Janet he answered me very
kindly but he was so very just in the matter that I got afraid of
him. And after that I ran away, and have been roaming ever since; so
there was never a chance of our meeting. But that letter of his has
opened my eyes. To think of him following me that way all over the
world, waiting to hold out a helping hand if I should want it, I only
wish I had known, or even suspected, the sort of man he was, and how
he cared for me, and I would sometimes have come back to see him, if
I had to come half round the world. Well, all I can do now is to