Montreal, Dec. 16, 18—.
This is a nice way to keep a journal. But the days when I could write regularly are gone by. That was when I was at Thrush Hill.
I am having a simply divine time. How in the world did I ever contrive to live at Thrush Hill?
To be sure, I felt badly enough that day in October when I left it. When the train left Valleyfield I just cried like a baby.
Alicia and Roger welcomed me very heartily, and after the first week of homesickness—I shiver yet when I think of it—was over, I settled down to my new life as if I had been born to it.
Alicia has a magnificent home and everything heart could wish for—jewels, carriages, servants, opera boxes, and social position. Roger is a model husband apparently. I must also admit that he is a model brother-in-law.
I could feel Alicia looking me over critically the moment we met. I trembled with suspense, but I was soon relieved.
"Do you know, Katherine, I am glad to see that your photograph didn't flatter you. Photographs so often do, I am positively surprised at the way you have developed, my dear; you used to be such a scrawny little brown thing. By the way, I hope there is nothing between you and Jack Willoughby?"
"No, of course not," I answered hurriedly. I had intended to tell Alicia all about Jack, but when it came to the point I couldn't.