me to think of him, because
they had made up a big friendship, they two, and there were deep reasons
why I should engage myself. I went to Larry to inquire of this, and he
said he did not go so far as Mr. Caspian thought. However, it would be
good for me to be nice to Mr. C. and not make him sorrow, for a time,
until some things were settled. So I am being nice, but sometimes it is
difficult, because Mr. Caspian and Mr. Storm are not sympathetic. Still,
don't you find the little difficulties in the life are like the cloves
and cinnamon in the rice pudding which we at school asked for in a
"Round Robin?" (Oh, that nice word! We found it, you remember, in an
English book!)

Mr. Storm drives my darling car, with which we make many dollars from
our visitors who love to go on tour. I am considered too small, though I
can do it quite well and have no fear. In smooth places without turns
Mr. Storm lets me take the wheel. I cannot talk when I drive. I am too
happy and have a thousand emotions, like a beehive filled with bees that
keep flying home with honey. But he can talk, no matter what happens,
and he says things I remember. They seem to paint my brain with pictures
which he gives me to keep. So his words are like his eyes, not to be
forgotten. You know in our garden at the convent there were flowers
which would not be banished, though the gardener pulled them up by the
roots again and still again: poppies for instance. Some thoughts which
come to one from other people's minds are like these. They persist, and
they plant their seeds in a deep place where they cannot be pulled out.

Mr. Caspian is like the gardener at the convent. He tries to stamp out
these thoughts, to plant others in me. But the roots have gone down
where he cannot find them.

He has come into our automobile, because his own is broken and being
mended at Easthampton, where we stayed a night, and I danced with Peter
Storm. I let Mr. Caspian come, instead of saying he had better go with
the boys in their car, the Hippopotamus, because of Larry asking me to
be nice. But I do not let him drive ever--except to-day when I am not in
the car, as you shall hear. It is too pleasant having Peter by me when I
have to cry, "Oh, what a lovely place!" or, "See the wonderful view!"
or, "Here is a funny sight!" He has a mood which matches mine, and it
would not be so with Mr. Caspian. I do not know why, but Mr. Caspian
reminds me of an iron fence. You could drape him w