though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I used to be; but she has no other society—save that of her uncongenial mother, and her governess (as artificial and conventional a person as that prudent mother could procure to rectify the pupil's natural qualities), and, now and then, her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be her lot in life—and so does she; but her speculations on the future are full of buoyant hope—so were mine once. I shudder to think of her being awakened like me to a sense of their delusive vanity. It seems as if I should feel her disappointment even more deeply than my own: I feel, almost, as if I were born for such a fate, but she is so joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so guileless and unsuspecting too—Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel as I feel now, and know what I have known!
Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of October's brightest loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the garden enjoy-
