hter colour even than
the fair curls of the charitable lady. What a pity it is, that with the
dying, taste is not the first thing to depart. How I wish for one good
home cooked dish.--

Evening. The first autumnal winds
carrying with it some poplar leaves.

A letter from our dear old doctor, my best friend. He wants to hear how
I am getting on, how I feel, and how the climate agrees with me. He
reproaches himself for not having hidden the hopeless truth from me; at
the same time he praises my courage and firmness; he does not try to
change or put another construction on his former words; he knows it
would be useless. "Remember, dear Mary," he adds, "that miracles still
happen every day, and that all our science and knowledge only teach us
to marvel at everything or nothing. He is aware that my best comfort is
to know the truth, and to live in the truth as long as life is granted
me."

Several days later. I have lost the date.
Beautiful autumnal evening.

Here was so much wind in the forenoon that I had to remain in-doors. I
was busy altering my dresses for my chest becomes more and more
delicate and they oppress me. In the afternoon the wind subsided, and I
walked out, down the broad street called Rennweg. Numbers of cows and
goats were driven through it--not a pleasant circumstance attending the
walks here. I tremble every time I see one of those clumsy horned heads
approach me though I know that they are not so stupid as they appear,
and have not such strong prejudices against a lonely female, as my wise
fellow-creatures. It is my bodily weakness which in case of need could
not find shelter behind a stout heart, which leaves me defenceless. So
I kept close to the houses, and arrived safely at the Western gate of
the town from whence the road leads on to the beautiful and sunny
Vintschgau. A path which passes at the foot of the Kuechelberg and then
winds through the vineyards tempted me and I slowly walked in that
direction. It pleased me to see the heavy bunches of purple grapes
hanging from the trellis above me, the huge yellow pumpkins, the ripe
maize in short all the riches of a southern autumn. Now and then I
met peasants at work; tubs filled with grapes and carts laden with
vine-leaves passed me. It seemed strange to me that the work was done
so quietly, without music or singing, for I had always