We improved our housekeeping, later in the morning. I showed her over the house. It isn't much--Cape Codder, two rooms up and two down. Every corner interested her, and when she found a shoebox in the bedroom closet, she asked for it. At her direction, I have arranged it on a chest near my bed and the window which shall be always open. She says the mosquitoes will not bother me, and I don't doubt her. I unearthed a white silk scarf for the bottom of the box. After asking my permission--as if I could want to refuse her anything!--she got her sewing kit and snipped off a piece of the scarf several inches square, folded it on itself several times, and sewed it into a narrow pillow an inch long. So now she has a proper bed and a room of her own. I wish I had something less coarse than silk, but she insists she's pleased with it. We have not talked very much today. In the afternoon she flew out for an hour's play in the cloud-country. When she returned, she let me know that she needed a long sleep. She is still sleeping, I think. I am writing this downstairs, fearing the light might disturb her. Is it possible I can have thirty or forty years in her company? I wonder how teachable my mind still is. I seem to be able to assimilate new facts as well as I ever could; this ungainly carcass should be durable, with reasonable care. Of course, facts without a synthesizing imagination are no better than scattered bricks, but perhaps my imagination-- I don't know. Judy wants out. I shall turn in when she comes back. I wonder if poor Judy's life could be--the word is certainly "saved." I must ask. * * * * * June 10 Last night when I stopped writing I did go to bed, but I was restless, refusing sleep. At some time in the small hours--there was light from a single moon--she flew over to me. The tensions dissolved away like an illness and my mind was able to respond with a certain calm. I made plain that I would never willingly part company with her, which I am sure she already knew, and she gave me to understand that there are two alternatives for the remainder of my life. The choice, she says, is altogether mine, and I must take time to be sure of my decision. I can live out my natural span, whatever it proves to be, and she will not leave me for long at any time. She will be there to advise, teach, help me in anything good I care to undertake. She says she would enjoy this; for some reason she is, as we'd say in our language, fond of me. Lord, the books I could write! I fumble for words now, in the usual human way. Whatever I put on paper is a miserable fraction, of the potential; the words themselves are rarely the right ones. But under her guidance-- I could take a fair part in shaking the world. With words alone. I could preach to my own people. Before long, I would be heard.