_May 13th, 1895_. Lena Streatham gave me this diary. I can't think what possessed her, for she has been simply hateful to me sometimes this last term. Perhaps it was remorse, because it's awfully handsome, with just the sort of back I like--soft Russia leather, with my initials in the corner, and a clasp with a dear little key, so that you can leave it about without other people seeing what is inside. I always intended to keep a diary when I left school and things began to happen, and I suppose I must have said so some day; I generally do blurt out what is in my mind, and Lena heard and remembered. She's not a bad girl, except for her temper, but I've noticed the hasty ones are generally the…
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