It seemed wrong to read it, and yet he knew that Jenny's soul held nothing she would not have shared with him, and he was so hungry for a word from her though it were only a word out of the past.
The entries were not many nor long, but it smote his heart to find how large a space his name, his interests, his successes, filled there.

The entries of honour were little heart-notes of evenings together especially happy; there were two birthdays still singing for joy, and sometimes there was a saying of his she had put down because it was so helpful, or a poem she had copied out; and also there were clever little criticisms of books she had read, and sometimes a wise little reflection of her own,--which brought home to him, with a certain pang, that the little child who had seemed so dependent on him had been an independent personality, after all.
As he came to the last entry, he put the book down with a gesture of pain.

The last entry had been made the day after Jenny had discovered Theophil's love for Isabel.

It was very brief, just a sob: "Have realised that I am no fit wife for Theophil.

And yet how I love him!" As Theophil read this, all that sad night came back to him with unbearable vividness, and he felt once more a little sobbing body crying its heart out against his.