I feel that I deceived you to-day about my health and I succumbed to the awfully great temptation of deceiving myself. Really and truly, thinking it over, I am afraid I am not well enough to live in that darling little flat. You see there are days when I am completely hors de combat; I can't walk a step further than I walked to-day and I have to take horrid and extravagant care of myself always. Sometimes I get a week when I can't move and I am always under a doctor's care and if I do go out I'm supposed not to breathe the dust. This sounds ridiculous; I wish I didn't have to say it. I feel there is plenty of room to be well in une petite appartement but there is not enough room to be ill and I have to provide for it. When I said I had to write for pennies I didn't mean for the essential pennies but for all the luxuries which are, alas! my necessities. Yes, forgive me, I was carried away to-day and I forgot I must behave like an invalid. But when I came in and lay down and rested I thought: You know these things aren't for you, and you were deceiving those two dear people. You must let them know at once.

Will you forgive me? And thank you for a lovely day. I'm lying here living it over and seeing in my mind's eye your garden and hearing the torrent. And much more important than those things—delighting in the fact of having met you.