CHAPTER XXII.
October 5th .-- My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is dashed with a bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise it as I will.

I may try to persuade myself that the sweetness overpowers it; I may call it a pleasant aromatic flavour; but say what I will, it is still there, and I cannot but taste it.

I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur's faults; and the more I love him the more they trouble me.

His very heart, that I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than I thought it.

At least, he gave me a specimen of his character to-day that seemed to merit a harder name than thoughtlessness.