The Gardener is here; he arrived at Aurora's heels, thumping his tail. I think he has done wonders, but Oh, I feel inclined to cry to the garden, as I do to you when page 268 you've been to the barber: Why did you let him take off so much? When will it grow again? My cotton plant has lost its curls—a ruthless chopping of them: the roses that had all started what I thought were the most exquisite promising shoots are cut down to the bone and told to try again. (I must plant sweet peas immediately.) And he is so delighted with his work; his good face beams; he shows me all stones he has taken out—it sounds like an operation—and there on the path lie the pink geraniums. O Weh! O Weh! I feel there's an awful moral to be drawn out of all this—Except ye can bear this to be done unto ye, ye shall not bring forth. At any rate some old Gardener or other has been doing it to us for years, and God knows we've had our naked shivering moments. So now I shall fill this garden with flowers. I shall make it to blaze and shine and smell ravishing and look celestially beautiful by the time you come, just to point the moral further.

The wind with light, faint footfalls walks over the sea: the water rings against the shore, like a bell, striking softly.

[Later.]

The gardener has gone; there is a smell of blue gum: that means the tea kettle is on. After tea I am going for a walk up the road behind the hill. It's a marvellous day, warm and yet refreshing.