an retire
unobserved when the sermon is too long or our flesh too weak, and hear
ourselves being prayed for by the blackrobed parson. In winter the
church is bitterly cold; it is not heated, and we sit muffled up in
more furs than ever we wear out of doors; but it would of course be very
wicked for the parson to wear furs, however cold he may be, so he
puts on a great many extra coats under his gown, and, as the winter
progresses, swells to a prodigious size. We know when spring is coming
by the reduction in his figure. The congregation sit at ease while
the parson does the praying for them, and while they are droning the
long-drawn-out chorales, he retires into a little wooden box just big
enough to hold him. He does not come out until he thinks we have sung
enough, nor do we stop until his appearance gives us the signal. I have
often thought how dreadful it would be if he fell ill in his box and
left us to go on singing. I am sure we should never dare to stop,
unauthorised by the Church. I asked him once what he did in there; he
looked very shocked at such a profane question, and made an evasive
reply.

If it were not for the garden, a German Sunday would be a terrible
day; but in the garden on that day there is a sigh of relief and more
profound peace, nobody raking or sweeping or fidgeting; only the little
flowers themselves and the whispering trees.

I have been much afflicted again lately by visitors--not stray callers
to be got rid of after a due administration of tea and things you are
sorry afterwards that you said, but people staying in the house and not
to be got rid of at all. All June was lost to me in this way, and it
was from first to last a radiant month of heat and beauty; but a garden
where you meet the people you saw at breakfast, and will see again at
lunch and dinner, is not a place to be happy in. Besides, they had a
knack of finding out my favourite seats and lounging in them just when
I longed to lounge myself; and they took books out of the library with
them, and left them face downwards on the seats all night to get well
drenched with dew, though they might have known that what is meat for
roses is poison for books; and they gave me to understand that if they
had had the arranging of the garden it would have been finished long
ago--whereas I don't believe a garden ever is finished. They have all
gone now, thank heaven, except one, so that I have a little breathing
space before others begin to