, I could catch no glimpse of her expression, although I thought I
saw the heave of a sob in her shoulders. At last, after the train was
already in motion, she turned round and put two shillings into his hand.
I saw her stand and look after us with a perfect heaven of love on her
face--this poor one-eyed Madonna--until the train was out of sight; but
the man, sordidly happy with his gains, did not put himself to the
inconvenience of one glance to thank her for her ill-deserved kindness.

I have been up at the Spec. and looked out a reference I wanted. The
whole town is drowned in white, wet vapour off the sea. Everything drips
and soaks. The very statues seem wet to the skin. I cannot pretend to be
very cheerful; I did not see one contented face in the streets; and the
poor did look so helplessly chill and dripping, without a stitch to
change, or so much as a fire to dry themselves at, or perhaps money to
buy a meal, or perhaps even a bed. My heart shivers for them.

_Dumfries, Friday._--All my thirst for a little warmth, a little sun, a
little corner of blue sky avails nothing. Without, the rain falls with a
long drawn _swish_, and the night is as dark as a vault. There is no
wind indeed, and that is a blessed change after the unruly, bedlamite
gusts that have been charging against one round street corners and
utterly abolishing and destroying all that is peaceful in life. Nothing
sours my temper like these coarse termagant winds. I hate practical
joking; and your vulgarest practical joker is your flaw of wind.

I have tried to write some verses; but I find I have nothing to say that
has not been already perfectly said and perfectly sung in _Adelaide_. I
have so perfect an idea out of that song! The great Alps, a wonder in
the star-light--the river, strong from the hills, and turbulent, and
loudly audible at night--the country, a scented _Fruehlingsgarten_ of
orchards and deep wood where the nightingales harbour--a sort of German
flavour over all--and this love-drunken man, wandering on by sleeping
village and silent town, pours out of his full heart, _Einst, O Wunder,
einst_, etc. I wonder if I am wrong about this being the most beautiful
and perfect thing in the world--the only marriage of really accordant
words and music--both drunk with the same poignant, unutterable
sentiment.

To-day in Glasgow my father went off on some business, and my mother and
I wandered about for two hours. We had lunch together, and were