Five-years later.—I have lighted upon this old diary, which it has interested me to look over, containing, as it does, records of the time when life shone more warmly in my eye than it does now.  I am impelled¹ to add one sentence to round off its record of the past.  About a year ago my sister Caroline, after a persistent² wooing, accepted the hand and heart of Theophilus Higham, once the blushing young Scripture³ reader who assisted at the substitute for a marriage I planned, and now the fully-ordained curate of the next parish.  His penitence⁴ for the part he played ended in love.  We have all now made atonement for our sins against her: may she be deceived no more.
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