met
him again the year before our marriage. Without vanity I declare that
then he snubbed me not one little bit. These things are very far away.
But to me, though far away, they are very vivid and very lovely. I see
them as you, when you were small, so often pleaded to see a fairy
landscape by looking through the large end of the gold and
tortoise-shell spy-glass upon my writing-table. All of which may seem
to you somewhat childish and trivial, but I grow an old woman and have
a fancy for toys and tender make-believes--such as fairy landscapes
seen through the big end of a spy-glass. The actual landscape, at
times, is a trifle discouragingly rain-washed and cloudy!---Roger and
Mary are here. Their two boys are just gone back to school again. They
are fine, courteous, fearless, little fellows. Roger makes a rather
superb middle-aged man. He has much of my father--your grandfather's
reticence and dignity. Indeed, he might prove slightly alarming, was
one not so perfectly sure of him, dear creature. Mary remains, as of
old, the most wholesome and helpful of women. Yes, it is good to dwell,
for a time, among one's own people. And I cannot but rejoice that my
eldest brother has come to an arrangement by which, at his death, your
Uncle William will receive a considerable sum of money in lieu of the
property. This last will go direct to Roger, and eventually to his
boys. If your Uncle William had a son, the whole matter would be
different. But I own it would hurt me that in the event of his death
there would be no Ormiston at Ormiston after these many generations. In
all probability the place would be sold immediately, moreover, for it
is an open secret that, through no fault of his own, poor man, William
is sadly embarrassed in money matters. And he has other sorrows--of a
rather terrible nature, since they are touched with disgrace. But here
you will probably detect a point of prejudice, so I had better stop!--I
look out upon a gray, northern sea, where 'the white horses fume and
fret' under a cold, gray, northern sky. The oaks in the park are just
thickening with yellow-green buds. And there, close to my window,
perched on a topmost twig, a missel-thrush is singing, facing the wind
like a gentleman. You look out upon a purple sea, I suppose, beneath
clear skies and over orange trees and palms. I wonder if any brave bird
pipes to you as my storm-cock to me? It brings up one's courage to hear
his song, so strong and wild and s