shoes
after tight ones that made blisters. And how divine to fly to you--a
distracted chicken, battered by a thunderstorm, scuttling back under its
mother's downy wing!

Nevertheless, I'm not going to cheat you out of seeing England through
my eyes, because my pleasure--just a little of it--is damped by Dick. I
am resigned and calm, and you mustn't think me a martyr. I've told you I
hate whiners, and I won't be one. Why, I ought to be thankful for the
chance of such a wonderful trip, and not be cowardly enough to spoil it
by a few private worries!

Cumberland is even lovelier than Wales, though I shouldn't have thought
that possible. Sir Lionel went climbing with the nice Welsh guide, whom
he invited to Keswick, so he wasn't with us much; and Dick being in
London still, there were only Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Senter, and I to be
conducted by Young Nick. It did seem odd being driven by him, and seeing
his back look so inexpressive among the most ravishing scenes. I asked
if he didn't think Cumberland glorious, but he said it was not like
India. I suppose that was an answer?

We spun off into the mysterious enchantments of Borrodaile in gusts of
rain; but the heavenly valley was the more mystic because of the
showers. Huge white clouds walked ahead of us, like ghosts of
pre-historic animals; and baby clouds sprawled on the mountain sides,
with all their filmy legs in air.

At Lodore the water was "coming down" like a miniature Niagara. Heavy
rains had filled the cup of its parent river full, and the waterfall
looked as if floods of melted ivory were pouring over ebony boulders.
What a lovely, rushing roar! It was like the father of all sound--as if
it might have given the first suggestion of sound to a silent, new-born
world.

Windermere and Derwent Water we saw, too, and each was more beautiful
than the other. Also I was much excited about the Giant's Grave, near
Keswick, which has kept its secret since before history began.

All the way to Carlisle the country was very fair to see, scarcely
flagging in charm to the end; and Carlisle itself was packed with
interest, from its old cathedral to the castle where David I. of
Scotland died and Mary Queen of Scots lodged.

Now our thoughts were turned toward the Roman Wall, and I thrilled a
little, despite the forbidding stiffness of Sir Lionel's disapproving
back as he drove. Because of Kipling's splendid story of the Roman
soldier in "Puck of Pook's Hill," I knew that for