I think of Catherine and Annie, and I remark that the breakwaters are formed of hop-poles, twined together and clasped with red-rusted iron girdles; the wood has been washed by the tides white and clean as bones.  I wonder whether I shall ask Annie to be my wife, and I wonder also whence came those—­literally—­millions of wine bottle corks that strew the beach to my right.  From a wreck? from old fishing nets? or merely from the natural consumption of beer at the building of the breakwater?

Coming back to Down End, I find a travelling threshing machine at work in the rick-yard.  I had heard the monotonous thrumming of its wheels a good way off.  The scene is one of great animation, the machine is drawn up against the conical-shaped haystack, its black smoke stretches out in serpentine coils against the sky.  A dozen men are busy about her:  those who work her, old Anderson, son Robert—­a dreadful lout he is too, quite unlike his sister—­various other louts of the same calibre, the two little boys, very much in everyone’s way, and Mrs. Anderson and Annie, who have just brought out jugs of ale.  I naturally stop to say a few words to Annie and watch the threshing.  Anderson is grinding out some of last year’s oats for the cattle.

Son Robert comes to take a pull out of Annie’s jug.  “That’s prime, measter, ain’t it?” he says to me, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  I go in thoughtfully.  Is son Robert exactly the sort of man I should care to call brother-in-law?

April 11, 12.—­These two days I have been casting up the pros and cons of a marriage with Annie.  Shall it be—­or not be?  I suffer from a Hamlet-like perplexity.  On the one hand I get a good, an amiable, an adoring little wife, who would forestall my slightest wish, who would warm my slippers for me, for whom I should be the Alpha and Omega of existence.  She would never argue with me, never contradict me, never dream of laughing at me; would never laugh at all unless I allowed her, for she would give into my keeping, as a good wife should, the key of her smiles and of her tears.  But of course I should wish her to laugh.  I should wish the dear little creature to remain as merry and thoughtless as possible.  Dear Annie! what surprise and delight will shine in your innocent blue eyes when I tell you my story!  Your childlike gratitude will be almost embarrassing.  Last, and perhaps most weighty pro of all—­when Catherine hears of it she will be filled with regret; yes, she may act indifference as gaily as she pleases, I am convinced that in her heart of hearts she will be sorry.