M. de la Feste does certainly seem to be all that one could desire as protector to a sensitive fragile child like Caroline, and for that I am thankful.  Still, I must remember that I see him as yet only through her eyes.  For her sake I am intensely anxious to meet him, and scrutinise him through and through, and learn what the man is really made of who is to have such a treasure in his keeping.  The engagement has certainly been formed a little precipitately; I quite agree with my father in that:  still, good and happy marriages have been made in a hurry before now, and mother seems well satisfied.

August 20.—­A terrible announcement came this morning; and we are in deep trouble.  I have been quite unable to steady my thoughts on anything to-day till now—­half-past eleven at night—­and I only attempt writing these notes because I am too restless to remain idle, and there is nothing but waiting and waiting left for me to do.  Mother has been taken dangerously ill at Versailles:  they were within a day or two of starting; but all thought of leaving must now be postponed, for she cannot possibly be moved in her present state.  I don’t like the sound of haemorrhage at all in a woman of her full habit, and Caroline and the Marlets have not exaggerated their accounts I am certain.  On the receipt of the letter my father instantly decided to go to her, and I have been occupied all day in getting him off, for as he calculates on being absent several days, there have been many matters for him to arrange before setting out—­the chief being to find some one who will do duty for him next Sunday—­a quest of no small difficulty at such short notice; but at last poor old feeble Mr. Dugdale has agreed to attempt it, with Mr. Highman, the Scripture reader, to assist him in the lessons.

I fain would have gone with my father to escape the irksome anxiety of awaiting her; but somebody had to stay, and I could best be spared.  George has driven him to the station to meet the last train by which he will catch the midnight boat, and reach Havre some time in the morning.  He hates the sea, and a night passage in particular.  I hope he will get there without mishap of any kind; but I feel anxious for him, stay-at-home as he is, and unable to cope with any difficulty.  Such an errand, too; the journey will be sad enough at best.  I almost think I ought to have been the one to go to her.

August 21.—­I nearly fell asleep of heaviness of spirit last night over my writing.  My father must have reached Paris by this time; and now here comes a letter . . .

Later.—­The letter was to express an earnest hope that my father had set out.  My poor mother is sinking, they fear.  What will become of Caroline?  O, how I wish I could see mother; why could not both have gone?

Later.—­I get up from my chair, and walk from window to window, and then come and write a line.  I cannot even divine how poor Caroline’s marriage is to be carried out if mother dies.  I pray that father may have got there in time to talk to her and receive some directions from her about Caroline and M. de la Feste—­a man whom neither my father nor I have seen.  I, who might be useful in this emergency, am doomed to stay here, waiting in suspense.