s bodily weakness and exhaustion? I do not know.

I have been ill again. It is a nuisance having to send for a doctor,
because his fees are extremely high, and he has to come a good long
way. Also, I do not think the good man's visits are of the slightest
service to me. I have been living for twelve days exclusively upon
milk; a healing diet, I dare say, but I have come to weary of the
taste and sight of it, and its effect upon me is the reverse of
stimulation. But I am in no wise inclined to cavil, for I am entirely
free from pain at the moment; the weather is perfectly glorious, and
my neighbours, Blades and his wife, are in their homely fashion
extremely kind to me.

My one source of embarrassment is that Ash, the timber-getter in the
camp across the creek, is continually bringing me expensive bottles of
Simpkins's Red Marvel, his genuine kindness necessitating not only
elaborate pretences of regularly consuming his pernicious specific for
every human ill, from consumption and 'bad legs' to snake-bites, but
also periodical discussions with him of all my confounded symptoms--a
topic which wearies me almost to tears. Indeed, I prefer the symptoms
of Ash's friend in Newtown--or was it Balmain?--who was 'all et up
with sores, something horrible.'

Notwithstanding the brilliant sunshine and cloudless skies of this
month, the weather has been exquisitely fresh and cool, and my log
fire has never once been allowed to go out, Blades, with the kindness
of a man who can respect another's fads, having kept me richly
supplied with logs. Mrs. Blades has been feeding Punch for me, and at
least twice each day that genial rascal has neighed long and loudly at
the slip-rails by the stable, as I believe in friendly greeting to me.
I shall, no doubt, presently feel strong enough to walk out and have a
talk with Punch.

My last letter from Mrs. Oldcastle, written no more than a month ago--the
mail service to Australia is improving--tells me that the park in
London is looking lovely, all gay with spring foliage and blooms. She
says that unless I intend being rude enough to falsify her prophecy, I
must now be preparing to pack my bags and book my passage home. Home!
Well, Ash, whose father like himself was born here, calls England
'Home,' I find. This is one of the most lovable habits of the children
of our race all over the world.

But obviously it would be a foolish and stultifying thing for me to
think of leaving my hermitage. I