metaphorical trembling, I am now writing this. I wonder if anybody will
ever read it. This my first chapter shall be composed of a little of the
talk that passed at our dinner-table that day. Mr. Blackstone was the only
other stranger present; and he certainly was not much of a stranger.

"Do you keep a diary, Mrs. Percivale?" asked Mr. S., with a twinkle in his
eye, as if he expected an indignant repudiation.

"I would rather keep a rag and bottle shop," I answered: at which Mr.
Blackstone burst into one of his splendid roars of laughter; for if ever a
man could laugh like a Christian who believed the world was in a fair way
after all, that man was Mr. Blackstone; and even my husband, who seldom
laughs at any thing I say with more than his eyes, was infected by it, and
laughed heartily.

"That's rather a strong assertion, my love," said my father. "Pray, what do
you mean by it?"

"I mean, papa," I answered, "that it would be a more profitable employment
to keep the one than the other."

"I suppose you think," said Mr. Blackstone, "that the lady who keeps a
diary is in the same danger as the old woman who prided herself in keeping
a strict account of her personal expenses. And it always was correct; for
when she could not get it to balance at the end of the week, she brought it
right by putting down the deficit as _charity_."

"That's just what I mean," I said.

"But," resumed Mr. S., "I did not mean a diary of your feelings, but of the