good almost to be true—­miles and miles of laughing country, little white towns just smiling in the early light, a thin strip of river here and there, dimpling and dancing, stretches of fields of all colors—­all so, peaceful and so gay, and so “chummy” that it gladdens the opening day, and makes me rejoice to have lived to see it.  I never weary of it.  It changes every hour, and I never can decide at which hour it is the loveliest.  After all, it is a rather nice world.

Now get out your map and locate me.

You will not find Huiry.  But you can find Esbly, my nearest station on the main line of the Eastern Railroad.  Then you will find a little narrow-gauge road running from there to Crecy-la-Chapelle.  Halfway between you will find Couilly-Saint-Germain.  Well, I am right up the hill, about a third of the way between Couilly and Meaux.

It is a nice historic country.  But for that matter so is all France.  I am only fifteen miles northeast of Bondy, in whose forest the naughty Queen Fredegonde, beside whose tomb, in Saint-Denis, we have often stood together, had her husband killed, and nearer still to Chelles, where the Merovingian kings once had a palace stained with the blood of many crimes, about which you read, in many awful details, in Maurice Strauss’s “Tragique Histoire des Reines Brunhaut et Fredegonde,” which I remember to have sent you when it first came out.  Of course no trace of those days of the Merovingian dynasty remains here or anywhere else.  Chelles is now one of the fortified places in the outer belt of forts surrounding Paris.

So, if you will not accept all this as an explanation of what you are pleased to call my “desertion,” may I humbly and reluctantly put up a plea for my health, and hope for a sympathetic hearing?

If I am to live much longer,—­and I am on the road down the hill, you know,—­I demand of Life my physical well-being.  I want a robust old age.  I feel that I could never hope to have that much longer in town,—­city-born and city-bred though I am.  I used to think, and I continued to think for a long time, that I could not live if my feet did not press a city pavement.  The fact that I have changed my mind seems to me, at my age, a sufficient excuse for, as frankly, changing my habits.  It surely proves that I have not a sick will—­yet.  In the simple life I crave—­digging in the earth, living out of doors—­I expect to earn the strength of which city life and city habits were robbing me.  I believe I can.  Faith half wins a battle.  No one ever dies up on this hill, I am told, except of hard drink.  Judging by my experience with workmen here, not always of that.  I never saw so many very old, very active, robust people in so small a space in all my life as I have seen here.

Are you answered?

Yet if, after all this expenditure of words, you still think I am shirking—­well, I am sorry.  It seems to me that, from another point of view, I am doing my duty, and giving the younger generation more room—­ getting out of the lime-light, so to speak, which, between you and me, was getting trying for my mental complexion.  If I have blundered, the consequences be on my own head.  My hair could hardly be whiter—­that’s something.  Besides, retreat is not cut off.  I have sworn no eternal oath not to change my mind again.