he contents of the bottle distasteful in the extreme. "The
South is sunny," he wrote to his mother, "but oh, my great jumping
grandmother, how seldom! And it's cold, mummy, like being beaten with
whips. And it rains--well, if it rained cats and dogs a fellow wouldn't
mind. Maybe they'd speak to him, but it rains solid cold water, and it
hits the windows the way waves hit the port-holes at sea; and the only
thing that stops the rain is a wind that comes all the way from Alaska
for the purpose. In protected corners the sun has a certain warmth. But
the other morning the waiter put my milk on the wrong side of my chair,
in the shade, namely, and when I went to drink it it was frozen solid.
You were right about the people here all being kind; they are all the
same kind. I know them all now--by sight; but not by name, except, of
course, some who are stopping at Willcox's. We have had three ice
storms--_'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluehen?_' I am getting to
_kennst_ it very well. But Willcox, who keeps a record of such things,
says that this is the coldest winter Aiken has known since last winter!

"But in spite of all this there is a truth that must be spoken. I feel a
thousand times better and stronger than when I came. And yesterday,
exercising in the privacy of my room, I discovered that there are once
more calves upon my legs. This is truth, too. I have no one to talk to
but your letters. So don't stint me. Stint me with money if you can
(here I defy you), but for the love of Heaven keep me posted. If you
will promise to write every day I will tell you the name of the
prettiest girl in Aiken. She goes by eight times every day, and she
looks my way out of the corner of her eye. And I pretend to be reading
and try very hard to look handsome and interesting.... Mother! ... just
now I rested my hand on the arm of my chair and the wood felt hot to the
touch! It's high noon and the sun's been on it since eight o'clock, but
still it seems very wonderful. Willcox says that the winter is
practically over; but I begged him not to hurry...."

Such was the usual trend of his letters. But that one dated March 7
began with the following astonishing statement:

"I love Aiken ..." and went on to explain why.

But Mister Masters was not allowed to love Aiken until he had come
through the whole gauntlet of gossip. It had first been suggested that
he was a consumptive and a menace ("though of course one feels terribly
sorry for