ith pretty flowers,
but underneath there would always be the iron fence. Perhaps Peter Storm
may be a stone wall under the ivy and blossoming things. But stone is
part of nature, and has beautiful colours deep in it, soaked in from
sunsets and sunrises and rainbows through thousands of centuries.

All the things I see as we travel in the car--fast as a glorious strong
wind which blows past the beauties of earth--all the things I see are
more _emphasized_ when I have Peter sitting by me, seeing them, too.
That is why life is so wonderful. I feel things in _double_, as with two
souls. Yet of course I am not in love. Do not think that, or you will be
wrong. It is my intellect which is waking up, after it was kept in pink
cotton by the Sisters; for you know learning school lessons does not
wake up our intellect. It only puts on a bright polish, so by and by it
can reflect the world when it's out of the cotton. And, oh, it is a
sweet world, here in the country that is my home!

By and by I will tell you about the house where we are now, and a kind
of mystery which gives the fairy-story effect. But you would not know
what these days have been if I left out the tale of our travelling. I
sent you a fat envelope of postcards, as I promised, with pictures of
Easthampton: the windmills and the old houses, and the big waves. You
will like the one of the long fierce wave like a white cat's paw. They
call it the "sea puss." I hoped it meant that really: a giant cat that
seized bathers, and people far up the beach as if they were mice running
away. But Captain Winston, who loves the history as we love the bonbons,
says no, they have only _stolen_ that name for a great tidal wave which
sweeps in from the sea on this side of our island. It was in Indian days
but a meek little word: "seepus," small river.

[Illustration: "Southampton's soul is very, very old, full of memories
of Indians"]

The postcards of Southampton are all pictures of beautiful new houses
which rich people have built among the dunes. I could not get old
ones, though Southampton's soul is very, very old, full of memories of
Indians and early English settlers who were jealous of the Dutch. Now it
is a colony of "cottages" bigger than many of our French chateaux, and
of the most unexpected, charming shapes, covered with flowers. Girls and
boys who like to dance and have fun all summer like it better than
Easthampton, so their mothers have to like it better, too. You w