ne
Hill. I've only a telegram yet though, but write at once to
congratulate you on your little goddaughter.

Also to say that I am very well, and sadly longing for Brantwood; but
that I am glad to see some vestige of beloved things here, once more.

We have glorious weather, and I am getting perfect rest most of the
day--mere saunter in the sunny air, taking all the good I can of it.
To-morrow we get (D.V.) to Beauvais, where perhaps I may find a letter
from Susie; in any case you may write to Hotel Meurice, Paris.

The oleanders are coming out and geraniums in all cottage windows, and
golden corn like Etruscan jewelry over all the fields.

* * * * *

BEAUVAIS, _3d September, 1880_.

We are having the most perfect weather I ever saw in France, much less
anywhere else, and I'm taking a thorough rest, writing scarcely
anything and sauntering about old town streets all day.

I made a little sketch of the lake from above the Waterhead which goes
everywhere with me, and it is so curious when the wind blows the leaf
open when I am sketching here at Beauvais, where all is so differently
delightful, as if we were on the other side of the world.

I think I shall be able to write some passages about architecture yet,
which Susie will like. I hear of countless qualities being discovered
in the new little Susie! And all things will be happy for me if you
send me a line to Hotel Meurice saying _you_ are happy too.

* * * * *

PARIS, _4th September_ (1880).

I have all your letters, and rejoice in them; though it is a little
sadder for you looking at empty Brantwood, than for me to fancy the
bright full Thwaite, and then it's a great shame that I've everything
to amuse me, and lovely Louvres and shops and cathedrals
and coquettes and pictures and plays and prettinesses of every color
and quality, and you've only your old, old hills and quiet lake. Very
thankful I shall be to get back to them, though.

We have finished our Paris this afternoon, and hope to leave for
Chartres on Monday.

* * * * *

HOTEL DE MEURICE, PARIS,
_4th September_ (1880).

Is it such pain to you when people say what they ought not to say
about _me_? But when do they say what they ought to say about
anything? Nearly everything I have ev