him, survive him, and dwell forever in this rich and mellow home.  As I write here, at my bedroom table, I have only to stretch out an arm and raise the window-curtain to see the thick-planted garden budding and breathing and growing in the silvery silence.  Far above in the liquid darkness rolls the brilliant ball of the moon; beneath, in its light, lies the lake, in murmuring, troubled sleep; round about, the mountains, looking strange and blanched, seem to bare their heads and undrape their shoulders.  So much for midnight.  To-morrow the scene will be lovely with the beauty of day.  Under one aspect or another I have it always before me.  At the end of the garden is moored a boat, in which Theodore and I have indulged in an immense deal of irregular navigation.  What lovely landward coves and bays—­what alder-smothered creeks—­what lily-sheeted pools—­what sheer steep hillsides, making the water dark and quiet where they hang.  I confess that in these excursions Theodore looks after the boat and I after the scenery.  Mr. Sloane avoids the water—­on account of the dampness, he says; because he’s afraid of drowning, I suspect.

22d.—­Theodore is right.  The bonhomme has taken me into his favor.  I protest I don’t see how he was to escape it. Je l’ai bien soigne, as they say in Paris.  I don’t blush for it.  In one coin or another I must repay his hospitality—­which is certainly very liberal.  Theodore dots his i’s, crosses his t’s, verifies his quotations; while I set traps for that famous “curiosity.”  This speaks vastly well for my powers.  He pretends to be surprised at nothing, and to possess in perfection—­poor, pitiable old fop—­the art of keeping his countenance; but repeatedly, I know, I have made him stare.  As for his corruption, which I spoke of above, it’s a very pretty piece of wickedness, but it strikes me as a purely intellectual matter.  I imagine him never to have had any real senses.  He may have been unclean; morally, he’s not very tidy now; but he never can have been what the French call a viveur.  He’s too delicate, he’s of a feminine turn; and what woman was ever a viveur?  He likes to sit in his chair and read scandal, talk scandal, make scandal, so far as he may without catching a cold or bringing on a headache.  I already feel as if I had known him a lifetime.  I read him as clearly as if I had.  I know the type to which he belongs; I have encountered, first and last, a good many specimens of it.  He’s neither more nor less than a gossip—­a gossip flanked by a coxcomb and an egotist.  He’s shallow, vain, cold, superstitious, timid, pretentious, capricious:  a pretty list of foibles!  And yet, for all this, he has his good points.  His caprices are sometimes generous, and his rebellion against the ugliness of life frequently makes him do kind things.  His memory (for trifles) is remarkable, and (where his own performances are not involved) his taste is excellent.  He has no courage for