February 16.—We have had such a dull life here all the winter that I have found nothing important enough to set down, and broke off my journal accordingly.  I resume it now to make an entry on the subject of dear Caroline’s future.  It seems that she was too grieved, immediately after the loss of our mother, to answer definitely the question of M. de la Feste how long the was to be; then, afterwards, it was agreed that the matter should be discussed on his autumn visit; but as he did not come, it has remained in till this week, when Caroline, with the greatest and confidence, has written to him without any further pressure on his part, and told him that she is quite ready to fix the time, and will do so as soon as he arrives to see her.  She is a little frightened now, lest it should seem forward in her to have revived the subject of her own accord; but she may assume that his question has been waiting on for an answer ever since, and that she has, therefore, acted only within her promise.  In truth, the secret at the bottom of it all is that she is somewhat saddened because he has not latterly reminded her of the pause in their affairs—that, in short, his original to possess her is not now found to him so obviously.  I suppose that he loves her as much as ever; indeed, I am sure he must do so, seeing how lovable she is.  It is mostly thus with all men when women are out of their sight; they grow .  Caroline must have patience, and remember that a man of his genius has many and important calls upon his time.  In justice to her I must add that she does remember it fairly well, and has as much patience as any girl ever had in the circumstances.  He hopes to come at the beginning of April at latest.  Well, when he comes we shall see him.  
April 5.—I think that what M. de la Feste writes is reasonable enough, though Caroline looks heart-sick about it.  It is hardly worth while for him to cross all the way to England and back just now, while the sea is so turbulent, seeing that he will be obliged, in any event, to come in May, when he has to be in London for professional purposes, at which time he can take us easily on his way both coming and going.  When Caroline becomes his wife she will be more practical, no doubt; but she is such a child as yet that there is no contenting her with reasons.  However, the time will pass quickly, there being so much to do in preparing a trousseau for her, which must now be put in hand in order that we may have plenty of leisure to get it ready.  On no account must Caroline be married in half-mourning; I am sure that mother, could she know, would not wish it, and it is odd that Caroline should be so intractably on this point, when she is usually so yielding.
 
April 30.—This month has flown on swallow’s wings.  We are in a great state of excitement—I as much as she—I cannot quite tell why.  He is really coming in ten days, he says.
 
May 9.  Four p.m.—I am so I can scarcely write, and yet am particularly to do so before leaving my room.  It is the unexpected shape of an expected event which has caused my absurd excitement, which proves me almost as much a school-girl as Caroline.
 
M. de la Feste was not, as we understood, to have come till to-morrow; but he is here—just arrived.  All household directions have devolved upon me, for my father, not thinking M. de la Feste would appear before us for another four-and-twenty hours, left home before post time to attend a distant ; and hence Caroline and I were in no small excitement when Charles’s letter was opened, and we read that he had been unexpectedly favoured in the dispatch of his studio work, and would follow his letter in a few hours.  We sent the covered carriage to meet the train indicated, and waited like two newly strung for the first sound of the returning wheels.  At last we heard them on the ; and the question arose who was to receive him.  It was, speaking, my duty; but I felt timid; I could not help shirking it, and insisted that Caroline should go down.  She did not, however, go near the door as she usually does when anybody is expected, but waited palpitating in the drawing-room.  He little thought when he saw the silent hall, and the house, how that house was at the very same moment alive and with interest under the surface.  I stood at the back of the upper landing, where nobody could see me from downstairs, and heard him walk across the hall—a step than my father’s—and heard him then go into the drawing-room, and the servant shut the door behind him and go away.
 
What a pretty lover’s meeting they must have had in there all to themselves!  Caroline’s sweet face looking up from her black gown—how it must have touched him.  I know she wept very much, for I heard her; and her eyes will be red afterwards, and no wonder, poor dear, though she is no doubt happy.  I can imagine what she is telling him while I write this—her fears lest anything should have happened to prevent his coming after all—gentle, smiling reproaches for his long delay; and things of that sort.  His two portmanteaus are at this moment crossing the landing on the way to his room.  I wonder if I ought to go down.
 
A little later.—I have seen him!  It was not at all in the way that I intended to encounter him, and I am .  Just after his portmanteaus were brought up I went out from my room to , when, at the moment of stepping towards the first stair, my eyes were caught by an object in the hall below, and I paused for an instant, till I saw that it was a bundle of canvas and sticks, composing a tent and easel.  At the same nick of time the drawing-room door opened and the affianced pair came out.  They were saying they would go into the garden; and he waited a moment while she put on her hat.  My idea was to let them pass on without seeing me, since they seemed not to want my company, but I had got too far on the landing to retreat; he looked up, and stood staring at me—engrossed to a dream-like fixity.  Thereupon I, too, instead of advancing as I ought to have done, stood moonstruck and awkward, and............