Yesterday afternoon, when the flowers came I felt quite overwhelmed—I felt as I took them out of the box: “Unless I mention every single flower to her how can I tell her how I saw them?”—the black poppy, the two pale sunflowers—all the different yellow ones—and then, above all, these round bright beauties. My sea-side lodging is a bower and even M., who is, at the moment, like the bathing dress, perpetually hanging out to dry after a sad, sad wetting—gave a great gasp of delight.

Oh, but I sigh for happiness—for a world which isn't always ‘out of joint.’ This constant living on the defensive—how tiring it is! Why won't people live more freely and more widely. But no, there they are—smug—like little plants in little pots—that ought to have been put out in a garden years ago—years ago. But they prefer their life on a shelf—out of the “full force” of the sun and wind—each one tight in itself and away from its companions. But Fear, Distrust, Cowardice, Smugness—surely they are more horrid worms than one would find in any garden. But I don't give up hope—I can't, and here is page 212 this divine, cloudless day waiting for something more to flower. Remember me when you lean over the tobacco plant—I can see it and breathe it now—how exquisite it is! There must be fields of tobacco plant in the moon—

Isn't David Copperfield adorable? I like even the Dora part, and that friend of Dora's—Julia—somebody, who was ‘blighted.’ She is such a joy to me. Yes—doesn't Charley D. make our little men smaller than ever —and such pencil sharpeners—

I have discovered nothing to read, and do not know how the days pass. The electric man is still filling me with sparks, every day for ¾ of an hour; it is very comforting, and I think it is going to beat the rheumatiz. How are your headaches?