I have been too long in answering your last letter. Forgive me. They varnished the outside of this chalêt and the ‘niff’ gave me white lead poisoning and I felt an awful worm with it. The whole world seemed varnish. Everything I ate had varnish sauce. Even J. was overcome for a day. But it's over now, and we appear to be living in a house beautifully basted with the best brown gravy—and the factory is in full blas' again. I must say we do manage to get through a great deal of work here, and there are always side issues—such as jam-making, sewing on our buttings, cutting each other's hair, which fill up the margin of the days. We try to make it a rule not to talk in bed. It's queer how full life is once one gets free of wasted time…

My ambition is to make enough money to build a small house here, near where we are—on a grassy slope with a wood behind and mountains before. It will take about page 133 five years to do it—get the money together. But it would be a very great satisfaction to design a really good place to work in—down to the last cupboard. But who am I to talk so lofty? When—if—the time comes and you're not too famous I'll beg you to lay aside your laurels and do it for us. I'll only look over your shoulder and breathe very hard when you make those lovely little lines that mean stairs.

Since I last wrote summer has gone. It's autumn. Little small girls knock at the door with pears to sell and blue-black plums. The hives have been emptied; there's new honey and the stars look almost frosty. Speaking of stars reminds me—we were sitting on the balcony last night. It was dark. These huge fir trees ‘take’ the darkness marvellously. We had just counted four stars and remarked a light; high up—what was it?—on the mountain opposite, when suddenly from far away a little bell began ringing. Some one played a tune on it—something gay, merry, ancient, over and over. I suppose it was some priest or lay brother in a mountain village. But what we felt was—it's good to think such things still happen—to think some peasant goes off in the late evening and delights to play that carillon. I sometimes have a fear that simple-hearted people are no more. I was ashamed of that fear last night. The little bell seemed to say, but joyfully: ‘Be not afraid. All is not lost.’

All being well as they say, Wingley should arrive this week. He'll be terrified after the journey. We shall have to get him snow boots for the winter and an airman's helmet made of mouse's skin.

J.: Ask the old boy if he has seen Charlie Chaplin in “The Kid.” And tell him to let us know what he thinks of it.

K.: I will.
K. to R.:?
R.: