This was at Bozen, where we stayed for two nights, and from which I have brought a cold with me:  it seems such an English thing to have, that I feel quite at home in the discomfort of it.  It had been such wonderful weather that we were sitting out of doors every evening up to 9.30 P.M. without wraps, and on our heads only our “widows’ caps.” (The M.-A. persists in a style which suggests that Uncle N. has gone to a better world.) Mine was too flimsy a work of fiction, and a day before I had been for a climb and got wet through, so a chill laid its benediction on my head, and here I am,—­not seriously incommoded by the malady, but by the remedy, which is the M.-A. full of kind quackings and fierce tyranny if I do but put my head out of window to admire the view, whose best is a little round the corner.

I had no idea Innsbruck was so high up among the mountains:  snows are on the peaks all around.  Behind the house-tops, so close and near, lies a quarter circle of white crests.  You are told that in winter creatures come down and look in at the windows:  sometimes they are called wolves, sometimes bears—­any way the feeling is mediaeval.

Hereabouts the wayside shrines nearly always contain a crucifix, whereas in Italy that was rare—­the Virgin and Child being the most common.  I remarked on this, which I suppose gave rise to a subsequent observation of the M.-A.’s:  “I think the Tyrolese are a good people:  they are not given over to Mariolatry like those poor priest-ridden Italians.”  I think, however, that they merely have that fundamental grace, religious simplicity, worshiping—­just what they can get, for yesterday I saw two dear old bodies going round and telling their beads before the bronze statues of the Maximilian tomb—­King Arthur, Charles the Bold, etc.  I suppose, by mere association, a statue helps them to pray.

The national costume does look so nice, though not exactly beautiful.  I like the flat, black hats with long streamers behind and a gold tassel, and the spacious apron.  Blue satin is a favorite style, always silk or satin for Sunday best:  one I saw of pearl-white brocade.

Since we came north we have had lovely weather, except the one day of which I am still the filterings:  and morning along the Brenner Pass was perfect.  I think the mountains look most beautiful quite early, at sunrise, when they are all pearly and mysterious.

We go on to Zurich on Thursday, and then, Beloved, and then!—­so this must be my last letter, since I shall have nowhere to write to with you rushing all across Europe and resting nowhere because of my impatience to have you.  The Mother-Aunt concedes a whole month, but Arthur will have to leave earlier for the beginning of term.  How little my two dearest men have yet seen of each other!  Barely a week lies between us:  this will scarcely catch you.  Dearest of dearests, my heart waits on yours.

LETTER XLIII.