“March 20.—­Mr. Lee comes every day.  His father lives only a few miles from us,—­a distance so short as to be no obstacle to a lover with a good horse; though I suspect, if the horse could speak, he would wish the distance either less or greater.  These midnight rides must be detrimental to the constitution of any steady horse, and he often wakes me up at night, pawing impatiently under the window while his master is making his lingering adieux on the door-step.

“April 1.—­I dislike Eleanor more every day.  I know not why, unless because I watch her so closely.  When Mr. Lee is not here she works as industriously as ever.  If I were in love, I would give myself up to a dream or reverie now and then, and build myself an air-castle, if it were only to see it tumble down, and call myself a fool for my pains; but she is too matter-of-fact to do that.  Well, if there is not much romance about her love, perhaps there is more reality; yet Thornton Lee is just the man one could make an ideal of, if one only would.  But this is not what I especially dislike her for; people must love according to their own nature and temperament, and not after another’s pattern.  The thing that frets me most just now is the way that Eleanor has of divining my thoughts before they are spoken, and even before they are quite clear to myself.  Sometimes, when we are talking together, some subject comes up on which I do not care to express my opinion.  Eleanor fixes her clear, penetrating eyes upon me, and drags my thought out into the light, just as a kingfisher pounces upon and pulls a fish out of the water.  Had I anything to conceal, any secret, I should be afraid of her; and as it is, I do not like this invasion of my personal kingdom,—­though my thoughts often acquire new strength and beauty from Eleanor’s strong and vigorous language.  Last evening, Mr. Lee, Eleanor, and myself were turning over the prints in a large portfolio.  We paused at one, the Departure of Hagar into the Wilderness.  The artist had represented Hagar turning away from the door of the tent with Ishmael and the bottle of water; Abraham was near her; while Sarah in the background with a triumphant face exulted at the driving out of the bondmaid.  The picture had not much merit as a work of Art; but in Hagar’s face was such a look of despairing, wistful tenderness, as she turned towards Abraham for the last time, that it moved me almost to tears.  I drew a long breath as the picture was turned over.  Looking up, I saw Eleanor’s eyes fixed upon me.

“’You pity Hagar, then?  You think it was a harsh and cruel thing to drive her out into the wilderness with her child?’

“‘Yes,’ said I, shortly,—­a little provoked that she should have seen it in my face.

“She went on:  ’Sarah was right.  Had I been she, I would have driven her out as remorselessly and as pitilessly.  Did she not, presuming upon her youth, her beauty, and her child, despise her mistress? and why should her mistress feel compassion for her?  The love of a long life might well thrust aside the passion of a few months, and Sarah, contemned by her bondmaid, is more worthy of pity than Hagar, in my eyes.’