“I have just looked out of my window,” I wrote, “and down into a little court that looks as if it belongs to another age and were sleeping in this. It is a court upon which all the houses that box this square, back. It has a fountain in it that has a stone cupid in its center; there must be a mile and a half of tiny winding paths; and there is heavy leaved foliage like none I have ever seen. Some of the trees quite cover the paths, and others of a more lacy variety give one a glimpse of the red tiles that divide the winding yellow ways from the green. “Across the way is a tan stucco house with green shutters; its next door neighbor is salmon pink and has flower boxes on its window sills. The windows are--most of them--set in at different heights. It does not look neat, but it is pretty; I think even prettier than the way we do it at home. “The sun is so bright that when it rests on anything white, it blinds you. And all the shadows are black. The roofs are of red tile, and slope gently. There are some poplar trees” (I found later they were cypress trees; the shape misled me) “swaying over the top of a low roof down the block. When I was last at the window a little shopkeeper who wore a big apron sat in his back door singing, while he polished brass, and his voice is nearly as good as Mr. Kinsolving’s--” (Mr. Kinsolving is our church tenor, and he gets two dollars for singing at each service, which shows how _fine_ he is; but I honestly thought that the shopkeeper sung better, but of course I wasn’t going to write that home for one of the twins to blurt out when they shouldn’t!) “Across the court,” I went on, “is a studio--” (It seems strange to me now--my writing about that studio in my first letter home!) “And I can see the artist painting,” my pen scratched on. “He has on a long white aprony-looking thing, and I can see his arm move before his canvas which is dark. I think I shall like watching him and thinking that there is some one else in this block who is trying hard to get on, as I shall soon! “I wish you could see everything I can, dear people, and especially the court. Marguerite Clarke, as she was in _Prunella_, ought to be dancing in the court with her Pierrot following; the court looks like that, and as if it would be full of ghosts who dance the minuet on moonlight nights--” I stopped, reread what I had written, and wondered whether I should send it, because Roberta, who is much more practical, sometimes thinks the things I fancy, silly. But then I caught the Mrs. Frank Jones on the envelope and I knew that it could go.