while beds were prepared and warmed, then up at 6 in the morning and a noble view of snow-peaks glittering in the rich light of a full moon while the hotel-devils lazily deranged a breakfast for us in the dreary gloom of blinking candles; then a solid 12 hours pull through the loveliest snow ranges and snow-draped forest—­and at 7 p.m. we hauled up, in drizzle and fog, at the domicile which had been engaged for us ten months before.  Munich did seem the horriblest place, the most desolate place, the most unendurable place!—­and the rooms were so small, the conveniences so meagre, and the porcelain stoves so grim, ghastly, dismal, intolerable!  So Livy and Clara (Spaulding) sat down forlorn, and cried, and I retired to a private, place to pray.  By and by we all retired to our narrow German beds; and when Livy and I finished talking across the room, it was all decided that we would rest 24 hours then pay whatever damages were required, and straightway fly to the south of France.

But you see, that was simply fatigue.  Next morning the tribe fell in love with the rooms, with the weather, with Munich, and head over heels in love with Fraulein Dahlweiner.  We got a larger parlor—­an ample one —­threw two communicating bedrooms into one, for the children, and now we are entirely comfortable.  The only apprehension, at present, is that the climate may not be just right for the children, in which case we shall have to go to France, but it will be with the sincerest regret.

Now I brought the tribe through from Rome, myself.  We never had so little trouble before.  The next time anybody has a courier to put out to nurse, I shall not be in the market.

Last night the forlornities had all disappeared; so we gathered around the lamp, after supper, with our beer and my pipe, and in a condition of grateful snugness tackled the new magazines.  I read your new story aloud, amid thunders of applause, and we all agreed that Captain Jenness and the old man with the accordion-hat are lovely people and most skillfully drawn—­and that cabin-boy, too, we like.  Of course we are all glad the girl is gone to Venice—­for there is no place like Venice.  Now I easily understand that the old man couldn’t go, because you have a purpose in sending Lyddy by herself:  but you could send the old man over in another ship, and we particularly want him along.  Suppose you don’t need him there?  What of that?  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.