It is J.'s turn but I can't refrain from slipping a Bon Jour into the envelope. It's such a marvellously Bon Jour, too; I wish I could send it you, intact. Blazing hot, with a light wind swinging in the trees and an exquisite transparent sky with just two little silver clouds lying on their backs like cherubs basking.

We don't only read Shakespeare and the poets. I have re-read Queechy lately, “fresh bursts of tears” and all. I loved it. “‘Mr. Carleton, who made that?’ said the child, pointing to the slowly sinking orb on the horizon with streaming eyes. The young English peer had no answer ready. His own eyes filled. ‘Will you lend me your little Bible,’ he said gently. ‘Oh, Mr. C.!’ Sobs were her only answer, but happy sobs, grateful sobs. She could not see to hand it to him, nor he to see it offered.” I have also been reading modern novels for the Daily News. They are a vulgar, dreary lot. Why all this pretence when we have not said a quarter of what there is page 150 to say. Why can't writers be warm, living, simple, merry or sad as it pleases them? All this falsity is so boring.