not used by the Man of Wrath; it is neutral
ground where we meet in the evenings for an hour before he disappears
into his own rooms--a series of very smoky dens in the southeast
corner of the house. It looks, I am afraid, rather too gay for an ideal
library; and its colouring, white and yellow, is so cheerful as to be
almost frivolous. There are white bookcases all round the walls, and
there is a great fireplace, and four windows, facing full south, opening
on to my most cherished bit of garden, the bit round the sun-dial; so
that with so much colour and such a big fire and such floods of sunshine
it has anything but a sober air, in spite of the venerable volumes
filling the shelves. Indeed, I should never be surprised if they skipped
down from their places, and, picking up their leaves, began to dance.

With this room to live in, I can look forward with perfect equanimity
to being snowed up for any time Providence thinks proper; and to go into
the garden in its snowed-up state is like going into a bath of purity.
The first breath on opening the door is so ineffably pure that it makes
me gasp, and I feel a black and sinful object in the midst of all the
spotlessness. Yesterday I sat out of doors near the sun-dial the whole
afternoon, with the thermometer so many degrees below freezing that
it will be weeks finding its way up again; but there was no wind, and
beautiful sunshine, and I was well wrapped up in furs. I even had tea
brought out there, to the astonishment of the menials, and sat till long
after the sun had set, enjoying the frosty air. I had to drink the tea
very quickly, for it showed a strong inclination to begin to freeze.
After the sun had gone down the rooks came home to their nests in
the garden with a great fuss and fluttering, and many hesitations and
squabbles before they settled on their respective trees. They flew over
my head in hundreds with a mighty swish of wings, and when they had
arranged themselves comfortably, an intense hush fell upon the garden,
and the house began to look like a Christmas card, with its white roof
against the clear, pale green of the western sky, and lamplight shining
in the windows.

I had been reading a Life of Luther, lent me by our parson, in the
intervals between looking round me and being happy. He came one day with
the book and begged me to read it, having discovered that my interest
in Luther was not as living as it ought to be; so I took it out with
me into the