er.

"Oh, good morning, Milly!" she said. "No, sister, it's not Upton's
fault. The bacon's beautiful, only cook can't cut a rasher."

And again I was in my common dilemma; I didn't know whether to laugh
or cry.

Good-bye, sweetest; take care of yourself.

LETTER VII.

GRAYSMILL, August 20th.

Good evening, Mrs. Norris. I am in a very good temper,--and you?
(N.B. I had an extra letter this morning; somebody spoils me.)

Now what shall I tell you, Inquisitiveness? Indeed, I tell you all
there is to tell. You complain that I never speak about the people
I meet; that's true enough. When I find myself in their company, I
make the best of it, but I never think about them between whiles.
As for Uncle George, why, I dislike him thoroughly. He is handsome
in his way, and looks remarkably young,--not that that is exactly a
crime! One of my principal objections to his person is a kind of
bachelor smartness he carries about with him. It is quite
ridiculous to see him with his daughters, the eldest of whom is
just eighteen and engaged to be married. There is nothing of the
simplicity of the country gentleman about him,--a simplicity that
in many cases covers a multitude of faults. No, I shall never be
able to bear him,--neither his juvenility, his jewelry, nor his
whiskers--certainly never the scent on his handkerchief! Ouf! I
hate him altogether. I promise you that when I find a human being
with whom I can exchange an idea, whose thoughts have even wandered
half a mile beyond the parish, I shall apprize you of the fact.
Meanwhile, dearest, you must put up with my company, as I myself am
learning to do. It seems to me almost that I need no one else! I
sit here in my room, out there in the woods, and I am content. I
read a great deal; I have just re-read the "Volsunga Saga," and
have begun Tolstoi's "Cossacks." I am trying, too, to continue my
mother's translation of "Prometheus," but the difference between my
work and hers is so great that I sometimes lose heart. However, I
shall try to finish it. Her beautiful face and yours look down at
me from the shelf above my writing-table, amidst a wealth of
flowers; and, as I look up, I can see the sun setting behind the
beech-trees, for I sit beside the window. The sky is full of hope,
the little clouds are glowing with colour, the trees with fulness
of life; a blackbird is singing his heart out in the willow by the
pond. I must