Now what shall I tell you, Inquisitiveness?  Indeed, I tell you all there is to tell.  You complain that I never speak about the people I meet; that’s true enough.  When I find myself in their company, I make the best of it, but I never think about them between whiles.  As for Uncle George, why, I dislike him thoroughly.  He is handsome in his way, and looks remarkably young,—­not that that is exactly a crime!  One of my principal objections to his person is a kind of bachelor smartness he carries about with him.  It is quite ridiculous to see him with his daughters, the eldest of whom is just eighteen and engaged to be married.  There is nothing of the simplicity of the country gentleman about him,—­a simplicity that in many cases covers a multitude of faults.  No, I shall never be able to bear him,—­neither his juvenility, his jewelry, nor his whiskers—­certainly never the scent on his handkerchief!  Ouf!  I hate him altogether.  I promise you that when I find a human being with whom I can exchange an idea, whose thoughts have even wandered half a mile beyond the parish, I shall apprize you of the fact.  Meanwhile, dearest, you must put up with my company, as I myself am learning to do.  It seems to me almost that I need no one else!  I sit here in my room, out there in the woods, and I am content.  I read a great deal; I have just re-read the “Volsunga Saga,” and have begun Tolstoi’s “Cossacks.”  I am trying, too, to continue my mother’s translation of “Prometheus,” but the difference between my work and hers is so great that I sometimes lose heart.  However, I shall try to finish it.  Her beautiful face and yours look down at me from the shelf above my writing-table, amidst a wealth of flowers; and, as I look up, I can see the sun setting behind the beech-trees, for I sit beside the window.  The sky is full of hope, the little clouds are glowing with colour, the trees with fulness of life; a blackbird is singing his heart out in the willow by the pond.  I must needs believe that life is worth living....

I have watched all the pink fade from the sky; the mottled clouds are grey and sleepy-looking.  I have turned away.  You are smiling very sweetly up there; my table is strewn with things her hand has touched,—­I am not quite alone.

Well, good night.  I must go down to my dear old ladies and read to them a while before they go to bed.

Your Emilia.

LETTER VIII.

Graysmill, September 4th.

You are a sweet to write so often, and I am a wretched niggard that deserves not one half of what you give.  I began to write several times—­of course you know that.  Take care of yourself; the thought of your coughing troubles me; each time I think of you I hear you cough, and it makes me miserable.  I met a child on the Common yesterday, with hair your colour that fell back in thick curls from a forehead almost as white as yours.  Need I say that I kissed