"There's no Cranford reason, I suppose, why a young female should not discuss these things with a person of the opposite sex? Even vowed to celibacy as _you_ are, I expect there are moments when you have dreamed dreams, and seen as in a vision the not impossible He. "Tell me about him, Katrine! I've a fancy to hear. "Now the sort of girl _I_ should choose... But this scrawl is too long already. That must keep for another day. "Salaams! "Jim Blair." CHAPTER NINE. "Cumly, _July 10, 19--_. "Dear Captain Blair, "I'm in a grumbly mood this morning. Do you mind? Something annoyed me yesterday, and this is the lachrymose aftermath. I'm sorry, for your sake as well as my own, for it's mail day, and it's now or never to catch that birthday! Perhaps a morning's writing will work it `off' better than any other distraction which this place affords. It's easy for you away at the other side of the world to sentimentalise over my `Cranford' home, but if I had been asked to state the spot of all others in which I would _not_ choose to live, it would be just such a derelict little hamlet as that in which fate has dumped me. It's a pretty little place, built on the side of a hill, with a precipitous High Street which is dangerous to drive down, and puffy to walk up. There is a church at the top, a chapel at the bottom, and a bank half-way; likewise a linen draper's shop, which serves the purpose of a lady's club, for no self-respecting woman allows a morning to pass without popping in at `Verney's.' If the stock does not supply what one wants (it rarely does!) there is always `a startling line' in something else, and a smell of flannel thrown in. `We are out of white gloves this morning, but I have a very fine line in unbleached calico!' Mr Verney is a deacon of the chapel; Mrs Verney was in the millinery, and has hankerings after the church. We notice a general tendency among the maidens of dissent to appear at the parish church, what time they possess new garments or hats... After we have bought our packets of needles, or a box of pins, we meet our friends in the front shop, and gossip. Such a lot of talk, about such little, little things! There are days when it's amusing enough; days when it's the driest dust. Last year a friend of mine started a `Thankfulness Society,' as a cure for the grumbling and discontent which is apt to engulf spinsters in a country place. Each member was presented with a little book, and was bound to inscribe therein the special causes of thankfulness which had occurred during each day. I refused to join. I said if I ceased to grumble it would have a demoralising effect on my character. No use to grumble? Fiddlesticks! _Every_ use! As a dear old American friend used to say: `When you feel like scratching, it's not a mite of use rolling your eyes, and trying to be a saint--just let yourself go, and be right down _ugly_ for a few minutes, and it will be a heap better for you, and