“July 1.—­Eleanor has been gone a month; in that time we have received but one letter from her.  Her brother still lies in a very critical state, and she will not leave him at present.  His motherless children, too, she thinks require her care.  It seemed very lonesome at first without her.  I did not think I could have missed an uncongenial person, one with whom I had so little sympathy, so much.  I think I must belong to the tribe of creeping plants, which cling to whatever is nearest to them.  Ashcroft grows daily more beautiful, and Thornton comes often to see me.  We read together books that I like, (not Dante,) walk and sketch.  We are on excellent terms, and call each other Cousin in view of our future relationship.  I can talk more freely to him, now that Eleanor is not here,—­and feel no disposition to hide my thoughts, now that I can keep them to myself, if I choose.

“July 24.—­A week ago, one fair midsummer afternoon, we strolled to the knoll, and sat down under the blossoming boughs of the chestnut-tree.

“‘I think,’ said I, ’this is the pleasantest place in all the grounds; but Eleanor never seemed willing to come here.’

“‘Eleanor has many unpleasant remembrances connected with the place,’ replied Thornton.  ’Her father’s obstinate persistence in digging the well was a great annoyance to the whole household, and, unimaginative as Eleanor is, I fancy sometimes, from her avoidance of the spot, that she has some superstitious idea connected with the well,—­that she fears through it some great misfortune may happen to some of the family.’

“‘I hardly see how that can be,’ said I, rising and going to the brink of the well; ‘it is very deep, but there was never any water in it.’

“Just then I caught sight of a little flower growing out of the cleft of one of the stones.  I knelt down and bent over to reach it.  I slipped, I know not how, and should have fallen, had not Thornton sprung to my side and caught me.

“‘Ah, my foolish cousin!’ said he, ’there needs not to be water in the well to make it a dangerous place.  Promise me that you will not attempt such a thing again.’

“‘Not I,’ said I, laughing gayly to conceal my fright,—­for I did think I was about to break my neck on the stones below.  ’There is no harm done, and I have got what I was after,’—­and I held up the flower.

“It was an ugly little thing, and looked not half so pretty in my hand as it did in the shadow of the well.  I would not have gathered it, had I seen it growing by the roadside.  ‘Is it not pretty?’

“‘Humph!’ said he, ‘very!—­worth breaking one’s neck for!’

“’I was about to offer it to you, but, since you despise it, I will keep it myself,’—­and I stuck it into my hair.

“Some time after, I missed the flower.  I did not see it on the grass, but a leaf strangely similar peeped out of Thornton’s waistcoat-pocket.  When we passed by the well, on leaving the knoll, ‘Promise me,’ said he again, ‘that you will not reach over the well for flowers any more.’