IN THE INTERESTS OF MUSIC.
Tuesday morning, Jan. 14.
I am writing before breakfast. They told me to lie quietly in bed this morning, but I'm not tired, not excited. Nothing more happened than I might have expected. I couldn't have supposed that in my presence people would be stocks and stones!
But oh, it was beautiful, terrible! How can I write it? If I could only flash last night—every glorious minute of it—upon paper!
And I might have lost it—they didn't want to let me go! There was a full family council beforehand. John had taken quietly enough the cancelling of our half engagement for the evening, but he had strong objections to my going to the Opera.
"If you prefer that—" he said; "but do you think it wise to appear in such a public place with strangers?"
"But why not?"
I was impatient at so much discussion and discretion. My mind was made up.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't, I suppose." John drew a great sigh. "But I shall feel easier if—I think I'll go too."
"We'll all go," cried Aunt Frank—it was so funny to have them sit there debating in that way the problem of Her—"we'll enjoy it of all things—the Judge and I, and especially Ethel."