13th.—­I have refused, of course, to supplant Theodore further, in the exercise of his functions, and he has resumed his morning labors with Mr. Sloane.  I, on my side, have spent these morning hours in scouring the country on that capital black mare, the use of which is one of the perquisites of Theodore’s place.  The days have been magnificent—­the heat of the sun tempered by a murmuring, wandering wind, the whole north a mighty ecstasy of sound and verdure, the sky a far-away vault of bended blue.  Not far from the mill at M., the other end of the lake, I met, for the third time, that very pretty young girl who reminds me so forcibly of A.L.  She makes so lavish a use of her eyes that I ventured to stop and bid her good-morning.  She seems nothing loath to an acquaintance.  She’s a pure barbarian in speech, but her eyes are quite articulate.  These rides do me good; I was growing too pensive.

There is something the matter with Theodore; his illness seems to have left him strangely affected.  He has fits of silent stiffness, alternating with spasms of extravagant gayety.  He avoids me at times for hours together, and then he comes and looks at me with an inscrutable smile, as if he were on the verge of a burst of confidence—­which again is swallowed up in the immensity of his dumbness.  Is he hatching some astounding benefit to his species?  Is he working to bring about my removal to a higher sphere of action? Nous verrons bien.

18th.—­Theodore threatens departure.  He received this morning a letter from one of his sisters—­the young widow—­announcing her engagement to a clergyman whose acquaintance she has recently made, and intimating her expectation of an immediate union with the gentleman—­a ceremony which would require Theodore’s attendance.  Theodore, in high good humor, read the letter aloud at breakfast—­and, to tell the truth, it was a charming epistle.  He then spoke of his having to go on to the wedding, a proposition to which Mr. Sloane graciously assented—­much more than assented.  “I shall be sorry to lose you, after so happy a connection,” said the old man.  Theodore turned pale, stared a moment, and then, recovering his color and his composure, declared that he should have no objection in life to coming back.

“Bless your soul!” cried the bonhomme, “you don’t mean to say you will leave your other sister all alone?”

To which Theodore replied that he would arrange for her and her little girl to live with the married pair.  “It’s the only proper thing,” he remarked, as if it were quite settled.  Has it come to this, then, that Mr. Sloane actually wants to turn him out of the house?  The shameless old villain!  He keeps smiling an uncanny smile, which means, as I read it, that if the poor young man once departs he shall never return on the old footing—­for all his impudence!

20th.—­This morning, at breakfast, we had a terrific scene.  A letter arrives for Theodore; he opens it, turns white and red, frowns, falters, and then informs us that the clever widow has broken off her engagement.  No wedding, therefore, and no departure for Theodore.  The bonhomme was furious.  In his fury he took the liberty of calling poor Mrs. Parker (the sister) a very uncivil name.  Theodore rebuked him, with perfect good taste, and kept his temper.