Here it is under my hand—finished—another story about as long as The Man Without a Temperament—perhaps longer. It's called The Stranger, a “New Zealand” story. My depression has gone; so it was just this. And now it's here, thank God—and the fire burns and it's warm and tho' the wind is howling—it can howl. What a queer business writing is! I don't know. I don't believe other people are ever as foolishly excited as I am while I'm working. How could they be? Writers would have to live in trees. I've been this man, been this woman. I've stood for hours on the Auckland Wharf. I've been out in the stream waiting to be berthed—I've been a seagull hovering at the stern and a hotel porter whistling through his teeth. It isn't as though one sits and watches the spectacle. That would be thrilling enough, God knows. But one is the spectacle for the time. If one remained oneself all the time like some writers can it would be a bit page 73 less exhausting. It's a lightning change affair, tho'. But what does it matter! I'll keep this story for you to read at Xmas. I only want to give it to you now. Accept my new story. Give it your blessing.