she even locked up his very waste-paper basket, full of fragments he had
torn, or useless papers he had thrown there, before he went to Plymouth.

In the drawer of his writing-table she found his diary. It was a
thick quarto: it began with their marriage, and ended with his leaving
home--for then he took another volume. This diary became her Bible; she
studied it daily, till her tears hid his lines. The entries were very
miscellaneous, very exact; it was a map of their married life. But
what she studied most was his observations on her own character, so
scientific, yet so kindly; and his scholar-like and wise reflections.
The book was an unconscious picture of a great mind she had hitherto but
glanced at: now she saw it all plain before her; saw it, understood it,
adored it, mourned it. Such women are shallow, not for want of a
head upon their shoulders, but of ATTENTION. They do not really
study anything: they have been taught at their schools the bad art of
skimming; but let their hearts compel their brains to think and think,
the result is considerable. The deepest philosopher never fathomed a
character more thoroughly than this poor child fathomed her philosopher,
when she had read his journal ten or eleven times, and bedewed it with a
thousand tears.

One passage almost cut her more intelligent heart in twain:--

"This dark day I have done a thing incredible. I have spoken with brutal
harshness to the innocent creature I have sworn to protect. She had run
in debt, through inexperience, and that unhappy timidity which makes
women conceal an error till it ramifies, by concealment, into a fault;
and I must storm and rave at her, till she actually fainted away. Brute!
Ruffian! Monster! And she, how did she punish me, poor lamb? By soft
and tender words--like a lady, as she is. Oh, my sweet Rosa, I wish you