Carrie was dreadfully upset at this disaster, for it was one of a pair of vases which cannot be matched, given to us on our wedding-day by Mrs. Burtsett, an old friend of Carrie’s cousins, the Pommertons, late of Dalston.  I called to Sarah, and asked her about the diary.  She said she had not been in the sitting-room at all; after the sweep had left, Mrs. Birrell (the charwoman) had cleaned the room and lighted the fire herself.  Finding a burnt piece of paper in the grate, I examined it, and found it was a piece of my diary.  So it was evident some one had torn my diary to light the fire.  I requested Mrs. Birrell to be sent to me to-morrow.

October 31.—­Received a letter from our principal, Mr. Perkupp, saying that he thinks he knows of a place at last for our dear boy Lupin.  This, in a measure, consoles me for the loss of a portion of my diary; for I am bound to confess the last few weeks have been devoted to the record of disappointing answers received from people to whom I have applied for appointments for Lupin.  Mrs. Birrell called, and, in reply to me, said:  “She never see no book, much less take such a liberty as Touch it.”

I said I was determined to find out who did it, whereupon she said she would do her best to help me; but she remembered the sweep lighting the fire with a bit of the Echo.  I requested the sweep to be sent to me to-morrow.  I wish Carrie had not given Lupin a latch-key; we never seem to see anything of him.  I sat up till past one for him, and then retired tired.

November 1.—­My entry yesterday about “retired tired,” which I did not notice at the time, is rather funny.  If I were not so worried just now, I might have had a little joke about it.  The sweep called, but had the audacity to come up to the hall-door and lean his dirty bag of soot on the door-step.  He, however, was so polite, I could not rebuke him.  He said Sarah lighted the fire.  Unfortunately, Sarah heard this, for she was dusting the banisters, and she ran down, and flew into a temper with the sweep, causing a row on the front door-steps, which I would not have had happen for anything.  I ordered her about her business, and told the sweep I was sorry to have troubled him; and so I was, for the door-steps were covered with soot in consequence of his visit.  I would willingly give ten shillings to find out who tore my diary.

November 2.—­I spent the evening quietly with Carrie, of whose company I never tire.  We had a most pleasant chat about the letters on “Is Marriage a Failure?” It has been no failure in our case.  In talking over our own happy experiences, we never noticed that it was past midnight.  We were startled by hearing the door slam violently.  Lupin had come in.  He made no attempt to turn down the gas in the passage, or even to look into the room where we were, but went straight up to bed, making a terrible noise.  I asked him to come down for a moment, and he begged to be excused, as he was “dead beat,” an observation that was scarcely consistent with the fact that, for a quarter of an hour afterwards, he was positively dancing in his room, and shouting out, “See me dance the polka!” or some such nonsense.