Some of the girls are coming back.  They stragle in, and put the favers they got at Cotillions on the dresser, and their holaday gifts, and each one relates some amorus experience while at home.  Dear dairy, is there somthing wrong with me, that Love has passed me by?  I have had offers of Devotion but none that apealed to me, being mostly either to young or not atracting me by physicle charm.  I am not cold, although frequently acused of it, Beneath my fridgid Exterior beats a warm heart.  I intend to be honest in this dairy, and so I admit it.  But, except for passing Fansies—­one being, alas, for a married man—­I remain without the Divine Passion.

What must it be to thrill at the aproach of the loved Form?  To harken to each ring of the telephone bell, in the hope that, if it is not the Idolised Voice, it is at least a message from it?  To waken in the morning and, looking around the familiar room, to muze:  “Today I may see him—­on the way to the Post Office, or rushing past in his racing car.”  And to know that at the same moment he to is muzing:  “Today I may see her, as she exercises herself at basket ball, or mounts her horse for a daily canter!”

Although I have no horse.  The school does not care for them, considering walking the best exercise.

Have flunked the French again, Mademoiselle not feeling well, and marking off for the smallest Thing.

Today’s helpfull Deed—­asisted one of the younger girls with her spelling.

January 4th.  Miss Everett’s couzin’s play is coming here.  The school is to have free tickets, as they are “trying it on the dog.”  Which means seeing if it is good enough for the large cities.

We have desided, if Everett marks us well in English from now on, to aplaud it, but if she is unpleasent, to sit still and show no interest.

January 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th.  Bad weather, which is depressing to one of my Temperment.  Also boil on noze.

A few helpfull Deeds—­nothing worth putting down.

January 9th.  Boil cut.

Again I can face my Image in my mirror, and not shrink.

Mademoiselle is sick and no French.  Misericorde!

Helpfull Deed—­sent Mademoiselle some fudge, but this school does not encourage kindness.  Reprimanded for cooking in room.  School sympathises with me.  We will go to Miss Everett’s couzin’s play, but we will dam it with faint praise.

January 10th.  I have written this Date, and now I sit back and regard it.  As it is impressed on this white paper, so, Dear Dairy, is it written on my Soul.  To others it may be but the tenth of January.  To me it is the day of days.  Oh, tenth of January!  Oh, Monday.  Oh, day of my awakning!

It is now late at night, and around me my schoolmates are sleeping the sleep of the young and Heart free.  Lights being off, I am writing by the faint luminocity of a candle.  Propped up in bed, my mackinaw coat over my robe de nuit for warmth, I sit and dream.  And as I dream I still hear in my ears his final words:  “My darling.  My woman!”