’October 13th, 1847.—­That correct date must be a sign that he is getting into harness.

’Well, dear Aunt Kitty, to make a transition from the third to the first person, like Mrs. Norris, you have in this short scene an epitome of the last fortnight.  Lady Oakstead is an honourable matron, whom I pity for having me in her way; a man unable to be got rid of by the lawful exercises of shooting and riding, and with a father always consulting her about him, and watching every look and movement, till the blood comes throbbing to my temples by the mere attraction of his eyes.  To be watched into a sense of impatience and ingratitude, is a trial of life for which one is not prepared.  My father and Sir Miles are very busy; I hang here an anomaly, sitting with them as being less in their way than in Lady Oakstead’s, and wondering what I shall be twenty years hence.  I am sick of the only course of life that will content my father, and I can see no sunshine likely to brighten it.  But, at least, no one’s happiness is at stake but my own.  Here is a kind, cordial letter from Lady Conway, pressing me to join her at Scarborough, make expeditions, &c.  My father is in such a state about me, that I believe I could get his consent to anything, but I suppose it would not be fair, and I have said nothing to him as yet.  On Monday we go to Leffingham, which, I hear, is formality itself.  After that, more state visits, unless I can escape to Oxford.  My father fancies me not well enough; but pray unite all the forces of the Terrace to impress that nothing else will do me any good.  Dragging about in this dreary, heartless way is all that ails me, and reading for my degree would be the best cure.  I mean to work hard for honours, and, if possible, delude myself with hopes of success.  Work is the need.  Here, there is this one comfort.  There is no one to talk to, no birds in last year’s nest, sons absent, daughters disposed of, but, unluckily, the Pastoress, under a mistaken sense of kindness, has asked the Vicar’s son to walk with me, and he is always lying in wait,—­an Ensign in a transition state between the sheepish schoolboy and the fast man, with an experience of three months of depot.  Having roused him from the pristine form, I regret the alternative.

’Did I ever write so savage a letter?  Don’t let it vex you, or I won’t send it.  What a bull!  There is such a delectable Scotch mist, that no one will suspect me of going out; and I shall actually cheat the Ensign, and get a walk in solitude to hearten me for the dismal state dinner party of the evening.

’October 14th.—­Is it in the book of fate that I should always treat this rose-coloured pastor like a carrion crow?  I have done it again!  And it has but brought out more of my father’s marvellous kindness and patience.