er,

I got your letter from Switzerland forwarded on this morning, and like
to feel you're by so much nearer me than you were a week ago. At
least, I try to persuade myself that it's a thing to like, but I know
in my heart it makes no earthly difference. If you're only a mile away
and I mayn't see you, what's the good? You might as well be a
thousand. The one thing that will get me to you again is accomplished
work. I want to work, to be quick; and here I am idle, precious days
passing, each of which not used for working means one day longer away
from you. And I'm so well. There's no earthly reason why I shouldn't
start practising again this very minute. A day yesterday in the forest
has cured me completely. By the time I've lived through my week of
promised idleness I shall be kicking my loose box to pieces! And then
for another whole week there'll only be two hours of my violin allowed.
Why, I shall fall on those miserable two hours like a famished beggar
on a crust.

Well, I'm not going to grumble. It's only that I love you so, and miss
you so very much. You know how I always missed you on Sunday in
Berlin, because then I had time to feel, to remember; and here it is
all Sundays. I've had two of them already, yesterday and today, and I
don't know what it will be like by the time I've had the rest. I
walked miles yesterday, and the more beautiful it was the more I missed
you. What's the good of having all this loveliness by oneself? I want
somebody with me to see it and feel it too. If you were here how happy
we should be!

I wish you knew Herr von Inster, for I know you'd like him. I do think
he's unusual, and you like unusual people. I had a letter from him
today, sent with a book he thought I'd like, but I've read it,--it is
Selma Lagerlof's Jerusalem; do you remember our reading it together
that Easter in Cornwall? But wasn't it very charming of him to send
it? He says he is coming this way the end of the week and will call on
me and renew his acquaintance with the Oberforster, with whom he says
he has gone shooting sometimes when he has been staying at Koseritz.
His Christian name is Bernd. Doesn't it sound nice and _honest_.

I suppose by the end of the week he means Saturday, which is a very
long way off. Saturdays used to seem to come rushing on to the very
heels of Mondays in Berlin when I was busy working. Little mother, you
can take it from me, from your wise, smug daughter, that