ONE would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary
(octavo, with the word ' Amy' in gold letters
wandering across the soft brown leather covers,
as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion,
rather a dear). To take such a liberty, and
allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as
they often invite you to do in novels (which,
however, are much more coquettish things than
plays), would be very helpful to us; we should
learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why
to-day finds her washing her hair. We should
also get proof or otherwise, that we are inter-
preting her aright; for it is our desire not to
record our feelings about Amy, but merely
Amy's feelings about herself; not to tell what
we think happened, but what Amy thought
happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked,
but we happen to know where it is kept. (In
the lower drawer of that hand-painted escri-

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