e day that I began to lose the first whiteness of my soul by
falling in love at fifteen with the parish organist, or rather with the
glimpse of surplice and Roman nose and fiery moustache which was all
I ever saw of him, and which I loved to distraction for at least six
months; at the end of which time, going out with my governess one day, I
passed him in the street, and discovered that his unofficial garb was
a frock-coat combined with a turn-down collar and a "bowler" hat, and
never loved him any more.

The first part of that time of blessedness was the most perfect, for
I had not a thought of anything but the peace and beauty all round me.
Then he appeared suddenly who has a right to appear when and how he will
and rebuked me for never having written, and when I told him that I had
been literally too happy to think of writing, he seemed to take it as a
reflection on himself that I could be happy alone. I took him round the
garden along the new paths I had had made, and showed him the acacia and
lilac glories, and he said that it was the purest selfishness to enjoy
myself when neither he nor the offspring were with me, and that the
lilacs wanted thoroughly pruning. I tried to appease him by offering him
the whole of my salad and toast supper which stood ready at the foot of
the little verandah steps when we came back, but nothing appeased that
Man of Wrath, and he said he would go straight back to the neglected
family. So he went; and the remainder of the precious time was disturbed
by twinges of conscience (to which I am much subject) whenever I found
myself wanting to jump for joy. I went to look at the painters every
time my feet were for taking me to look at the garden; I trotted
diligently up and down the passages; I criticised and suggested and
commanded more in one day than I had done in all the rest of the time;
I wrote regularly and sent my love; but I could not manage to fret and
yearn. What are you to do if your conscience is clear and your liver in
order and the sun is shining?

May 10th.--I knew nothing whatever last year about gardening and this
year know very little more, but I have dawnings of what may be done, and
have at least made one great stride--from ipomaea to tea-roses.

The garden was an absolute wilderness. It is all round the house, but
the principal part is on the south side and has evidently always been
so. The south front is one-storied, a long series of rooms opening one
into the oth