The weather is imperfect—to be very polite to it. It's warm, and then it's chill. Not so much windy as draughty. But where is perfect weather? Palm Beach, California, they say. But if I arrived, there'd be a snow-storm. L. M. arrived yesterday. The relief to have her is so great that I'll never never say another word of impatience. I don't deserve such a wife. All is in order already. M. and I sigh and turn up our eyes. M., in fact, to pay her a little compliment, has wrenched the ligaments of his foot and can't walk. He is tied to a chaise longue! Isn't it awful bad luck? But what marvellously good luck that L. M. was here and produced bandages and vinegar and all that was needful. The Ancient Sisters, of course, hovered over him, too, and made him cover his foot in a poultice of parsley last night. He went to bed looking like a young leg of lamb.

I wish you had been here this afternoon. They brought us in branches of cherries, all dark and glistening among the long slender leaves.