Can’t you let him feed the doves?  Can’t you let him fall in the canal occasionally?  Can’t you let his good-natured purse be a daily prey to guides and beggar-boys?  Can’t you let him find peace and rest and fellowship under Pere Jacopo’s kindly wing? (However, you are writing the book, not I—­still, I am one of the people you are writing it for, you understand.) I only want to insist, in a friendly way, that the old man shall shed his sweet influence frequently upon the page—­that is all.

The first time we called at the convent, Pere Jacopo was absent; the next (Just at this moment Miss Spaulding spoke up and said something about Pere Jacopo—­there is more in this acting of one mind upon another than people think) time, he was there, and gave us preserved rose-leaves to eat, and talked about you, and Mrs. Howells, and Winnie, and brought out his photographs, and showed us a picture of “the library of your new house,” but not so—­it was the study in your Cambridge house.  He was very sweet and good.  He called on us next day; the day after that we left Venice, after a pleasant sojourn Of 3 or 4 weeks.  He expects to spend this winter in Munich and will see us often, he said.

Pretty soon, I am going to write something, and when I finish it I shall know whether to put it to itself or in the “Contributors’ Club.”  That “Contributors’ Club” was a most happy idea.  By the way, I think that the man who wrote the paragraph beginning at the bottom of page 643 has said a mighty sound and sensible thing.  I wish his suggestion could be adopted.

It is lovely of you to keep that old pipe in such a place of honor.

While it occurs to me, I must tell you Susie’s last.  She is sorely badgered with dreams; and her stock dream is that she is being eaten up by bears.  She is a grave and thoughtful child, as you will remember.  Last night she had the usual dream.  This morning she stood apart (after telling it,) for some time, looking vacantly at the floor, and absorbed in meditation.  At last she looked up, and with the pathos of one who feels he has not been dealt by with even-handed fairness, said “But Mamma, the trouble is, that I am never the bear, but always the person.”

It would not have occurred to me that there might be an advantage, even in a dream, in occasionally being the eater, instead of always the party eaten, but I easily perceived that her point was well taken.

I’m sending to Heidelberg for your letter and Winnie’s, and I do hope they haven’t been lost.

My wife and I send love to you all. 
                                   Yrs ever,
          
                                   Mark.