Dear Diary — Well, this is our last night — it is about 7:45, raining outside, and we have most of our packing done. To even think of leaving the dear cottage and Oliphant makes me want to weep. We shouldn’t be going, Diary, really we shouldn’t — surely I will wake up in the morning and find it is the first Friday instead of the last. Surely we haven’t been here seven weeks tonight — surely these two months with Mary (my pet name for her is “Robin” if I can ever remember to call her that) are not over! I must be dreaming!
Why, oh why, have we wasted these precious weeks together — we both realize that they have been wasted, almost every hour. Useless regret! and oh how it hurts! If only I had guessed how they would have ended — we should have had an understanding the very first Sunday instead of the last. And to wake up in the night or even in the morning (which will probably be worse) and realize that Mary is not in the other bed will be the emptiest, loneliest feeling, I’m sure. Oh, Oliphant, I love you! I never want to leave — why can’t summer last forever?
Mrs. Kastner and Isabelle just came to call, but Mary and I are sitting in the kitchen, reading and writing.