GRAYSMILL, November 8th.

My little dear Constance, first and foremost I am freezing, and have
got a red nose, I'm certain. Is it cold with you also? The week has
been a full one. Uncle George's eldest daughter was married the day
before yesterday, and there were great festivities in the family.
The marriage should have taken place last June, but was postponed
owing to the grandfather's death.

What extraordinary creatures we are! I cannot tell you how many
Emilias were at that wedding. Something in me was touched by the
sight of a large family assembled from far and wide, excited and
united for the moment by a common sentiment; something in me was
lonely beyond description, for I was not of them; and whereas I
smiled and made merry in a white gown and felt the tears come to my
eyes when the little bride went forth under a shower of rice, I was
nevertheless looking on at the smiles and tears of the others with
doubt and cynicism rampant in my heart.

Poor little bride! I wondered how much she thought she loved him,
how much he cared for her; and where her smiles and her golden
dreams would be this time next year, poor little white thing, veiled
in ignorance.

It is not altogether a bad world, for all that. I certainly have not
found it so; but then it has been my good fortune to draw near the
hearts and brains of some very dear mortals. I cannot tell you how
fond I have grown of this creature,--Gabriel Norton, I mean. I can
say this openly to you, because you are sensible and know me, and
will not think at once, because he is a man and I a woman, that