yesterday, and with Ginty's assistance I have hung them
to-day! "Ginty" is the carpenter. The "g" is hard and the name is
unusual, but I am inclined to doubt whether it was ever bestowed upon
him by his godparents in baptism. I suspect Sar'-Ann of having a hand
in that nomenclature.

If my landlord could see my studio now he would hardly recognise his
conserva_tory_. One end has been boarded off for a dark-room, and the
whole has been neatly painted slate colour. When my few backgrounds
and accessories arrive I shall have a very presentable studio indeed.

Ginty is now engaged painting the outside in white and buff, and he is
then going to make me a board which will be placed at the bottom of the
garden to inform all and sundry that "Grace Holden is prepared to do
all kinds of photographic work at reasonable prices." I don't
anticipate that barriers will be needed to keep back the crowd.

How tired I am, and yet how wonderfully fresh and buoyant! My limbs
tremble and my head aches, but my soul just skips within me. I have
had a week in which to repent, and I have never come within sight of
repentance. And yet I have seen no more of Windyridge. I have not
been near the heather. I have not even climbed to the top of the hill
behind my cottage in order to look over the other side. I have wanted
to, but I dare not; I am terrified lest there should be factory
chimneys in close proximity.

Once or twice it has been warm enough for me to stretch myself full
length upon the grass, and I have lain awhile in blissful contemplation
of the work of the Great Architect in the high vault of His cathedral.
That always rests me, always fills me with a sense of mystery, always
gives me somehow or other a feeling of peace and of partnership. I
rise up feeling that I must do my best to make the world beautiful, and
use all my abilities--such as they are--to bring gladness into the
lives of other people. I cannot make clouds and sunsets, but I can
paint miniatures, and I can take portraits (or I think I can), and
these things make some homes bright and some folk happy. But I must
not moralise.

More often I bring out the deck-chair, which is one of my luxuries, and
sit in front of the cottage with Mother Hubbard as a companion. She is
splendid company. If I encourage her she will tell me interesting
stories of her youth and married life, or repeat the gossip of the
village; for none is better versed than she in all the