Feb. 23, Thursday
The picnic was stupid.
It must be that I am getting tired of seeing the same faces so often.
Albert Bacon and Jim Chiles came home with us, and we enjoyed the evening.
Capt. Rust is a dear old fellow, and Miss Connor and Maj. Camp added a little variety.
Capt. Rust and Mr. Bacon proposed a ride across country for the morning, but there is not a riding habit in the family, nor a piece of cloth big enough to make one.
I ruined mine in those fox hunts at Chunnenuggee Ridge last fall.
Flora is a famous horsewoman, and I know she must be a good rider, for her every movement is grace itself.
She is one of those people that gains upon you on acquaintance.
She is so out of the commonplace.
There is something stately and a little cold about her that reminds me of a beautiful lily, and yet there is a fascination about her that attracts everybody.
All the men that come near her go wild over her, and I don't wonder.
If I could write a novel, I would make he