time.  There isn’t anything the matter with us but the war; but that’s enough, Heaven knows.  It’s the worst ailment that has ever struck me.  Then, if you add to that this dark, wet, foggy, sooty, cold, penetrating climate—­you ought to thank your stars that you are not in it.  I’m glad your mother’s out of it, as much as we miss her; and miss her?  Good gracious! there’s no telling the hole her absence makes in all our life.  But Kitty is a trump, true blue and dead game, and the very best company you can find in a day’s journey.  And, much as we miss your mother, you mustn’t weep for us; we are having some fun and are planning more.  I could have no end of fun with her if I had any time.  But to work all day and till bedtime doesn’t leave much time for sport.

The farm—­the farm—­the farm—­it’s yours and Mother’s to plan and make and do with as you wish.  I shall be happy whatever you do, even if you put the roof in the cellar and the cellar on top of the house.

If you have room enough (16 X 10 plus a fire and a bath are enough for me), I’ll go down there and write a book.  If you haven’t it, I’ll go somewhere else and write a book.  I don’t propose to be made unhappy by any house or by the lack of any house nor by anything whatsoever.

All the details of life go on here just the same.  The war goes as slowly as death because it is death, death to millions of men.  We’ve all said all we know about it to one another a thousand times; nobody knows anything else; nobody can guess when it will end; nobody has any doubt about how it will end, unless some totally improbable and unexpected thing happens, such as the falling out of the Allies, which can’t happen for none of them can afford it; and we go around the same bloody circle all the time.  The papers never have any news; nobody ever talks about anything else; everybody is tired to death; nobody is cheerful; when it isn’t sick Belgians, it’s aeroplanes; and when it isn’t aeroplanes, it’s bombarding the coast of England.  When it isn’t an American ship held up, it’s a fool American-German arrested as a spy; and when it isn’t a spy it’s a liar who knows the Zeppelins are coming to-night.  We don’t know anything; we don’t believe anybody; we should be surprised at nothing; and at 3 o’clock I’m going to the Abbey to a service in honour of the 100 years of peace!  The world has all got itself so jumbled up that the bays are all promontories, the mountains are all valleys, and earthquakes are necessary for our happiness.  We have disasters for breakfast; mined ships for luncheon; burned cities for dinner; trenches in our dreams, and bombarded towns for small talk.

Peaceful seems the sandy landscape where you are, glad the very blackjacks, happy the curs, blessed the sheep, interesting the chin-whiskered clodhopper, innocent the fool darkey, blessed the mule, for it knows no war.  And you have your