and looking at the bare branches of the black ash-trees, as they spread out their network against the winter sky.  I have a little desk near the bay-window, where I have my drawing and writing materials, and where I pretend to write and draw, while Eleanor occupies a larger one at the opposite window.  Eleanor is a woman of business,—­keeps all her accounts, looks after her farm and servants, and manages all her own affairs, and, though a strict and exacting mistress, is neither harsh nor unkind;—­she evidently intends to perform all her own duties punctually and faithfully, and expects others to do the same.  I often look at her with wonder, her nature is so different from mine,—­never impulsive, always cool and steady,—­full of ceaseless activity, yet never hurried, and seemingly never perplexed.  I sometimes think she sees the whole of her life mapped out before her, and takes up every event in order.  With the exception of the servants, we are the only occupants of the house, Eleanor does not seek nor desire the society of her neighbors; and so while she works I dream, read, or answer Madge or Bertha’s letters.

“February 28.—­It has been snowing ceaselessly for two days.  I have read, drawn, and sewed till I am as weary as Marianna in the moated grange.  I have yawned aloud a dozen times, but Eleanor does not mind it.  She has been extremely busy with accounts, papers, and letters.  For the last four hours I do not think she has spoken a word.  I hear nothing but the scratch of her pen as it moves over the paper, and the wind in the ash-trees.  I have taken Madge’s journal in despair.  Ah, Madge!  I wish the bonnie girl were here;—­how we would talk nonsense by the hour together, just to keep our tongues in practice, and Madge would hunt down an idea through all its turnings and windings, as if it were a hare, and she a dog in chase of it!  A ring at the door;—­I hope it may be some human body that will make Cousin Eleanor open her lips at last.

“March 1.—­The blots on the opposite page show with what haste I shut up my journal yesterday.  The ring at the door brought more than I anticipated, and opened my eyes effectually for the rest of the day.  ‘Mr. Lee,’ said the servant, throwing the library-door wide open, and ushering in a man wrapped in a cloak, with a travelling-cap in his hand.  Cousin Eleanor rose instantly, and advanced to meet him.  I expected to see her extend her hand towards him, and welcome him in her usual courteous manner.  Instead of that, she gave him a hearty kiss, which could be heard as well as felt, and which was returned, as I thought, with interest.  If the marble Widow Wadman in the library had kissed the sympathizing face of Uncle Toby, I should not have been so much surprised, and should have thought it much more likely to happen.

“‘I am very glad to see you, Thornton,’ said she.  ’I did not think you could come till to-morrow.’

“‘I have made the best use of my time,’ returned he, ’and had no wish to spend my precious hours at a country inn.  It seemed good to see winter and snow again, after so many months of summer.’