Now it has cooled down again, and is pretty changeable. It seems to me so far the main difference between this climate and the English one is the difference between the mean temperatures of summer and winter. In Devonshire I should say the average mean difference between summer and winter is about 40°, and in Sherbrooke it's probably more like 100°. In both countries sudden changes and rises or falls are common. In this country it will fall from, in summer, say from 90° to 60°, and in England it will fall from 70° to 40°. It therefore stands to reason that this climate must be the most healthy, if people do not mind the heat, for anybody, no matter how thinly clothed, can always, with a little exercise, keep themselves healthily warm with the thermometer at 60°, but it is by no means always easy to prevent getting cold when it falls suddenly as low as 40°. In winter, I am told, it will frequently fall from 0° to 40° below; but then the winter here is such a recognised institution that everyone is prepared for such freaks. The healthy appearance of the kids in the country round about here would make you feel pretty happy about the "Grub," I think. I have seen some half his age who would make three of him at least. I should like to know what is inside the castles that you build in connection with my "nice acquaintance of the steamer." We didn't make any friends who asked us to stay with them, or anything of that sort. The number of saloon passengers was very limited, and those from whom I would have accepted invitations were more limited still. Dr. Marsh, the only one who took the trouble to help or advise us at all when we got on shore, and who is a very nice chap, gave us his address, and made us promise to hunt him up if ever we came out west, and told us if we wanted to know anything about that part of the country to write to him, and he would make all the enquiries, etc., in his power; which I shall certainly do towards next spring. It's no good writing now; the correspondence would die out and leave nothing definitely settled behind it. Now I think I'm finished up with Sherbrooke. I leave for Montreal to-night, by the 1.35 train. I hope there may be half-a-dozen appointments waiting for me. I have told you elsewhere why I do not write detailed accounts of the people I have seen or have yet to see, the chances of securing such-and-such a job, etc., etc. I have neither the time nor the ability to give you a clear and concise idea of the value and weight of each introduction, and to what it may probably lead. Besides, if I did, you would naturally want to know how each of them had ended, and I should have to send by each mail a long list of places where I had NOT got work--a glum kind of letter for both sides. Suffice it that my prospects are good, and that all my friends express their unqualified approbation of the courses I have adopted to attain my ends. _Montreal, old address_. There is nothing much that I can add.