A beautiful pink satin baby basket came direct from Printemps, filled with the most delicate little garments that a human hand could create. Do you remember the day when we were at school in Paris, that we passed Printemp's baby shop and planned our progenys' outfits--twenty years ago? I am now fuller of the joy of living than I was then--but on the threshold of womanly emotions. From my window I can see far down the icy canon. The mountain stream is a fluted ribbon of snow and ice, and where the spray tumbled before it froze, there are thousands of filmy rosettes iridescent in the sun's rays. The path is finished and Dr. Harmen is building a snow man. We are civilized aborigines gone mad with youth out here in the frigid zone, and anything as grown up as bridge has failed to interest us. From our home on the summit of "Kewanas Crag," Silver Lake looks like a stray turquoise below and the mysterious Black Hills around us catch glimpses of gold in the sunset hour, then dye themselves purple, take a tint of glowing rose-water, then turn dull and gray; a drama of color goes on ceaselessly; a play of ever shifting hues like those on a pigeon's breast. Do you know of anyone who has ever died in childbirth? If you do, don't tell me, as I am beginning to be frightened. Not afraid of the agony, for I rather enjoy pondering over the sacrifice, but so fearful of leaving all of this barely tasted sweet behind me. It seems as though my impatience would consume me--I want so to know whether I may be spared for more and more days of our endless joy. Your Christmas box came one day too soon and, like the child that I am transformed into, I resorted to tears in order to wheedle Carlton into permitting me to open it. The little things are wonderful and the discretion of your love is more so. Each little article is an expression of your faultless friendship, for losing which, not even Carlton's love could compensate me. The new decorations in my bed room are all in bloom like our love, and I lie awake during my specified hours of rest, gathering mental roses from my wall garden. My revival is as natural as the effect of May on the meadows; of a shower on a dry plant. I awaken with the breath of my Spring, which is heavy with Oriental sweetness like a rose of Frangistan. I should not in such moments as these, feel a death blow. All of the old mental bruises caused by knocking myself against corners, some that I myself created at times, and others that I saw but could not escape, are healed and quite forgotten in this new world of mine. I press a goodnight kiss on your dear understanding lips. MARIANNE. The Black Hills. February 1. Dearest of all Friends: