Last week I went to the garden party and I met a young man called Paul Osborne.  He is a young artist from Montreal who is boarding over at Heppoch.  He is the handsomest man I have ever seen—­very tall and slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and a pale, clever face.  I have not been able to keep from thinking about him ever since, and to-day he came over here and asked if he could paint me.  I felt very much flattered and so pleased when Aunt Margaret gave him permission.  He says he wants to paint me as “Spring,” standing under the poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through.  I am to wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers on my hair.  He says I have such beautiful hair.  He has never seen any of such a real pale gold.  Somehow it seems even prettier than ever to me since he praised it.

I had a letter from home to-day.  Ma says the blue hen stole her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and that pa has sold the little spotted calf.  Somehow those things don’t interest me like they once did.

July 9.

The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says.  I know he is making me look far too pretty in it, although her persists in saying he can’t do me justice.  He is going to send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says he will make a little water-color copy for me.

He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he reads me lovely things out of his books.  I don’t understand them all, but I try to, and he explains them so nicely and is so patient with my stupidity.  And he says any one with my eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever.  He says I have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world.  But I will not write down all the compliments he has paid me.  I dare say he does not mean them at all.

In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the bench under the acacia tree.  Sometimes we don’t talk at all, but I never find the time long.  Indeed, the minutes just seem to fly—­and then the moon will come up, round and red, over the harbor and Mr. Osborne will sigh and say he supposes it is time for him to go.

July 24.

    I am so happy.  I am frightened at my happiness.  Oh, I
    didn’t think life could ever be so beautiful for me as it is!

Paul loves me!  He told me so to-night as we walked by the harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to be his wife.  I have cared for him ever since I met him, but I am afraid I am not clever and well-educated enough for a wife for Paul.  Because, of course, I’m only an ignorant little country girl and have lived all my life on a farm.  Why, my hands are quite rough yet from the work I’ve done.  But Paul just laughed when I said so, and took my hands and kissed them.  Then he looked into my eyes and laughed again, because I couldn’t hide from him how much I loved him.

    We are to be married next spring and Paul says he will take
    me to Europe.  That will be very nice, but nothing matters so
    long as I am with him.