But for the occupation which the foregoing narrative has given to my mind; but for the relief which my heart can derive from its thoughts of Clara, I must have sunk under the torment of suspense and suspicion in which my life is now passed.  My sister!  Even in this self-imposed absence from her, I have still found a means of connecting myself remotely with something that she loves.  I have taken, as the assumed name under which I live, and shall continue to live until my father has given me back his confidence and his affection, the name of a little estate that once belonged to my mother, and that now belongs to her daughter.  Even the most wretched have their caprice, their last favourite fancy.  I possess no memorial of Clara, not even a letter.  The name that I have taken from the place which she was always fondest and proudest of, is, to me, what a lock of hair, a ring, any little loveable keepsake, is to others happier than I am.

I have wandered away from the simple details of my life in this place.  Shall I now return to them?  Not to-day; my head burns, my hand is weary.  If the morrow should bring with it no event to write of, on the morrow I can resume the subject from which I now break off.

October 20th.—­After laying aside my pen, I went out yesterday for the purpose of renewing that former friendly intercourse with my poor neighbours, which has been interrupted for the last three weeks by unintermitting labour at the latter portions of my narrative.

In the course of my walk among the cottages and up to the old church on the moor, I saw fewer of the people of the district than usual.  The behaviour of those whom I did chance to meet, seemed unaccountably altered; perhaps it was mere fancy, but I thought they avoided me.  One woman abruptly shut her cottage door as I approached.  A fisherman, when I wished him good day, hardly answered; and walked on without stopping to gossip with me as usual.  Some children, too, whom I overtook on the road to the church, ran away from me, making gestures to each other which I could not understand.  Is the first superstitious distrust of me returning after I thought it had been entirely overcome?  Or are my neighbours only showing their resentment at my involuntary neglect of them for the last three weeks?  I must try to find out to-morrow.

21st—­I have discovered all!  The truth, which I was strangely slow to suspect yesterday, has forced itself on me to-day.

I went out this morning, as I had purposed, to discover whether my neighbours had really changed towards me, or not, since the interval of my three weeks’ seclusion.  At the cottage-door nearest to mine, two young children were playing, whom I knew I had succeeded in attaching to me soon after my arrival.  I walked up to speak to them; but, as I approached, their mother came out, and snatched them from me with a look of anger and alarm.  Before I could question her, she had taken them inside the cottage, and had closed the door.