I was so glad of your letter to-day. Yes, it is an immense blow. She was the most precious, lovely little being, even so far away, you know, and writing me such long, long letters about the garden and the house and her conversations in bed with Father, and of how she loved sudden, unexpected cups of tea “out of the air, brought by faithful ravens in aprons”—and letters beginning “Darling child, it is the most exquisite day”—She lived every moment of life more fully and completely than anyone I've ever known—and her gaiety wasn't any less page 211 real for being high courage—courage to meet anything with.

Ever since I heard of her death my memories of her come flying back into my heart—and there are moments when it's unbearable to receive them. But it has made me realise more fully than ever before that I love courage—spirit—poise (do you know what I mean? all these words are too little) more than anything. And I feel inclined to say (not to anybody in particular) “Let us love each other. Let us be kind and rejoice in one another and leave all squabbles and ugliness to the dull dogs who only become articulate when they bark and growl. The world is so dreadful in many ways. Do let us be tender with each other.”