September 20th, 18—.

Three months married. Three months with Daisy all to myself, and yet not exactly to myself either, for of her own accord she does not often come where I am, unless it is just as I have shut myself up in my room, thinking to have a quiet hour with my books. Then she generally appears, and wants me to ride with her, or play croquet or see which dress is most becoming, and I always submit and obey her as if I were the child instead of herself.

She is young, and I almost wonder her parents allowed her to marry. Fan hints that they were mercenary, but if they were they concealed the fact wonderfully well, and made me think it a great sacrifice on their part to give me Daisy. And so it was; such a lovely little darling, and so beautiful. What a sensation she created at Saratoga! and still I was glad to get away, for I did not fancy some things which were done there. I did not like so many young men around her, nor her dancing those abominable round dances which she seemed to enjoy so much. "Square dances were poky," she said, even after I tried them with her for the sake of keeping her out of that vile John Britton's arms. I have an impression that I made a spectacle of myself, hopping about like a magpie, but Daisy said, "I did beautifully," though she cried because I put my foot on her lace flounce and tore it, and I noticed that after that she always had some good reason why I should not dance again. "It was too hard work for me; I was too big and clumsy," she said, "and would tire easily. Cousin Tom was big and he never danced."

By the way, I have some little curiosity with regard to that Cousin Tom who wanted Daisy so badly, and who, because she refused him, went off to South America. I trust he will stay there. Not that I am or could be jealous of Daisy, but it is better for cousins like Tom to keep away.

Daisy is very happy here, though she is not quite as enthusiastic over the place as I supposed she would be, knowing how she lived at home. The McDonalds are intensely respectable, so she says; but her father's practice cannot bring him over two thousand a year, and the small brown house they live in, with only a grass-plot in the rear and at the side, is not to be compared with Elmwood, which is a fine old place, every one admits. It has come out gradually that she thought the house was brick and had a tower and billiard-room, and that we kept a great many servants, and had a fish-pond on the premises, and velvet carpets on every floor. I would not let Fan know this for the world, as I want her to like Daisy thoroughly.

And she does like her, though this little pink and white pet of mine is a new revelation to her, and puzzles her amazingly. She would have been glad if I had married Julia Hamilton, of Boston; but those Boston girls are too strong-minded and positive to suit me. Julia is nice, it is true, and pretty, and highly educated, and Fan says she has brains and would make a splendid wife. As Fan had never seen Daisy she did not, of course, mean to hint that she had not brains, but I suspect even now she would be better pleased if Julia were here, but I should not. Julia is self-reliant; Daisy is not. Julia has opinions of her own and asserts them, too; Daisy does not. Julia can sew and run a machine; Daisy cannot. Julia gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night; Daisy does neither. Nobody ever waits for Julia; everybody waits for Daisy. Julia reads scientific works and dotes on metaphysics; Daisy does not know the meaning of the word. In short, Julia is a strong, high-toned, energetic, independent woman, while Daisy is—a little innocent, confiding girl, whom I would rather have without brains than all the Boston women like Julia with brains!

And yet I sometimes wish she did care for books, and was more interested in what interests me. I have tried reading aloud to her an hour every evening, but she generally goes to sleep or steals up behind me to look over my shoulder and see how near I am to the end of the chapter, and when I reach it she says: "Excuse me, but I have just thought of something I must tell Zillah about the dress I want to wear to-morrow. I'll be back in a moment;" and off she goes and our reading is ended for that time, for I notice she never returns. The dress is of more importance than the book, and I find her at ten or eleven trying to decide whether black or white or blue is most becoming to her. Poor Daisy! I fear she had no proper training at home. Indeed, she told me the other day that from her earliest recollection she had been taught that the main object of her life was to marry young and to marry money. Of course she did not mean anything, but I would rather she had not said it, even though I know she refused a millionaire for me who can hardly be called rich as riches are rated these days. If Dick Trevylian should fail to meet his payment I should be very poor, and then what would become of Daisy, to whom the luxuries which money buys are so necessary?

[Here followed several other entries in the journal, consisting mostly of rhapsodies on Daisy, and then came the following:]

December 15th, 18—.

Dick has failed to meet his payments, and that too after having borrowed of me twenty thousand more! Is he a villain, and did he know all the time that I was ruining myself? I cannot think so when I remember the look on his face as he told me about it and swore to me solemnly that up to the very last he fully expected relief from England, where he thought he had a fortune.

"If I live I will pay you sometime," he said; but that does not help me now. I am a ruined man. Elmwood must be sold, and I must work like a dog to earn my daily bread. For myself I would not mind it much, and Fan, who, woman-like, saw it in the distance and warned me of it, behaves nobly; but it falls hard on Daisy.

Poor Daisy! She never said a word when I told her the exact truth, but she went to bed and cried for one whole day. I am so glad I settled ten thousand dollars on her when we were married. No one can touch that, and I told her so; but she did not say a word or seem to know what I meant. Talking of anything serious, or expressing her opinion, was never in her line, and she has not of her own accord spoken with me on the subject, and when I try to talk with her about our future she shudders and cries, and says, "Please don't! I can't bear it! I want to go home to mother!"

And so it is settled that while we are arranging matters she is to visit her mother and perhaps not return till spring, when I hope to be in a better condition financially than I am at present.

One thing Daisy said, which hurt me cruelly, and that was: "If I must be a poor man's wife I might as well have married Cousin Tom, who wanted me so badly!" To do her justice, however, she added immediately: "But I like you the best."

I am glad she said that. It will be something to remember when she is gone, or rather when I return without her, as I am going to Indianapolis with her, and then back to the dreary business of seeing what I have left and what I can do. I have an offer for the house, and shall sell it at once; but where my home will be next, I do not know, neither would I care so much if it were not for Daisy,—poor little Daisy!—who thought she had married a rich man. The only tears I have shed over my lost fortune were for her. Oh, Daisy, Daisy!