We have enough to live on in comfort at home—no more. Papa has told us himself that he is not (and can never hope to be) a rich man. This is not the worst of it. Last year, he refused to marry a young couple, both belonging to our congregation. This was very unlike his usual kind self. Helena and I asked him for his reasons. They were reasons that did not take long to give. The young gentleman’s father was a rich man. He had forbidden his son to marry a sweet girl—because she had no fortune.
I have no fortune. And Philip’s father is a rich man.
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 this. Shall I write to my sister? But how should she know what is the matter with me, when I don’t know it myself? Besides, Helena is angry; she wrote unkindly to me when she answered my last letter.