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98 last fiasco was caused by love of blackberries, ergo greediness, which is distinctly a failing of my own, and nothing to do with an unlucky star! I wish I could commit my sins with my eyes shut. I know so perfectly well always when I am doing anything wrong, I see the good and the evil so clearly, the one on the right hand the other on the left, and yet, oh, shame! I nearly always choose the ill. Perhaps it is because I know my own wicked heart so well, that I, who am the merriest, noisiest, happiest of us all, have such deep, bitter fits of depression and misery now and then. In comparison with the keenness of enjoyment is the power of enduring pain, they say. If ever God sees fit to send me a great joy, I shall taste its sweetness to the uttermost; but if a great trouble come upon me, I shall bear every jot of its weight and hardness, and never seek to shift it to other shoulders, or contrive to bear it lightly. Clearly I am in a lachrymose and dismal frame of mind this evening; generally speaking, after a good howl, my spirits fly up to the skies, but this time I do not feel any the better, and if tears were forthcoming I would begin it all over again.

As I stroll along the coppice that divides our grounds from the high road, I hear a gay young voice whistling, "My love, she's but a lassie yet;" it sounds quite cheerful, and almost puts me in spirits. I hope he will not go away directly, for oh! I do hate to be all alone without a human voice within earshot. I have not looked upon the countenance of man, woman, or child for a whole hour; to see anybody would be company, so I mount the hedge preparatory to taking a small peep over it. Even a commercial traveller, or a rustic Lubin waiting for his sweetheart, would be nicer to look at than these still, straight trees and the stupid silent grass. Popping my head somewhat suddenly over the hedge, I find myself face to face with George Tempest. For a moment I stare speechlessly at him, then I drop the boughs,