horrid little flies; everything is black with flies. I do hate flies and
such things. I'm not going to put up with being driven out of the
front veranda. I won't have it. Besides, Father said: "Don't quarrel,
children!" (_Children_ to _her_ too!!) He's quite right. She puts
on such airs because she'll be fourteen in October. "The verandas are
common property," said Father. Father's always so just. He never lets
Dora lord it over me, but Mother often makes a favourite of Dora. I'm
writing to Hella to-day. She's not written to me yet.

July 21st. Hella has written to me, 4 pages, and such a jolly letter. I
don't know what I should do without her! Perhaps she will come here in
August or perhaps I shall go to stay with her. I think I would rather go
to stay with her. I like paying long visits. Father said: "We'll see,"
and that means he'll let me go. When Father and Mother say We'll see it
really means Yes; but they won't say "yes" so that if it does not come
off one can't say that they haven't kept their word. Father really lets
me do anything I like, but not Mother. Still, if I practice my piano
regularly perhaps she'll let me go. I must go for a walk.

July 22nd. Hella wrote that I positively must write every day, for one
must keep a promise and we swore to write every day. I. . . .

July 23rd. It's awful. One has no time. Yesterday when I wanted to write
the room had to be cleaned and D. was in the arbour. Before that I had
not written a _single_ word and in the front veranda all my pages blew
away. We write on loose pages. Hella thinks it's better because then one
does not have to tear anything out. But we have promised one another to
throw nothing away and not to tear anything up. Why should we? One can
tell a friend everything. A pretty friend if one couldn't. Yesterday
when I wanted to go into the arbour Dora glared at me savagely, saying