The weather has changed: it's really more lovely than ever, but showery—immense clapping showers of rain, castles and mountains in the sky and reflected in the purple sea, the air smelling of elder flower and seaweed. But alas! for my bones. It's brought on a devilish fit of spinal rheumatism, and I walk like little Nell's grandfather—and spent until four o'clock this morning—literally—wondering whether people my age could have paralysis. If not, how account for being cold-stone to the knees and so on and so on. The pain is devilish, devilish, devilish….

Yesterday morning I went into Looe and met Mr. P. and had a talk about chickens, tulips and boats. He is a huge man, a positive Titan. I came home to find another huge bouquet from his garden—mixed sweet williams, superb great velvet flowers. My room looks full of them and Ribni's dark head shines out of velvet bows. A. has made such an exquisite painting of mon fils chéri and given it me.

This morning when I woke up Mrs. Honey was particularly honeycomb. Dear old soul—in her black Sunday page 202 dress. She said “You've not slept. Thaät's bad. I'll see to it that you haäve your coffee right hot.” And she brought me boiling coffee and “a fried egg with bacon fried for a relish.” When I had done up all my buttons and was having a small sit down she said, looking at me with her kind old eyes, “Shall I recite you some verses I learned when I was a girl? Will eë haäve The Death of Moses or A Mother's Memories?” I said I'd have both. Down she sat. Each had, I should think, about 40 verses to it. She never hesitated for a word. She folded her hands and on and on went her soft old voice telling of the “crested waves”—telling of “the lion the King of Beasts” who sat under the mountain where Moses was buried and “forgot to roar.”

“Yea, from the monster's golden eyes
The golden tears dropped down….”

I listened and suddenly I thought of Wordsworth and his ‘faith’ in these people—and again, in spite of everything, I believed in England. Not only in England—in mankind. You will understand me when I tell you that I wanted to weep, to cry, Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.

Oh, the beauty of the human soul—the Beauty of it—the Beauty of it. Don't let us ever forget!

Duhamel knows it. There will be others. We will build an altar.

No, I've not written half what I meant to, and I can't. My back has got the upper hand. I'm off to bed with a hot water bottle. It's no good, Betsy. But don't worry. I'll be better to-morrow. It's only body, not heart, not head. Those are all I've got intact.