Well, first of all, there's Father; and second, there is Sarah. In order to rightly visualize Father, you must imagine all the strength and gentleness in the world, made man. And to be truly aware of Sarah, you must picture an aging fairy, who brings you just what you want on trays and things, before you know you want them; who creeps in to tuck you up before you realize you are about to grow chilly. Father is big and grey and brown; Sarah is like New England, just before spring; very reticent, and most tender beneath a wintry exterior. She has been nurse and servant, mother and friend to me, since that day when, after the doctors had agreed that there was no open door through which I might escape into health again, they brought me back here to live out the rest of my life. And of course no category would be complete without a mention of Peter, who is quite the most delightful lover that ever a girl could have. Then there's our cottage, a small red edifice, rather weather-beaten. It is close to the hills; I think that they care for it, in so friendly a manner do they regard its very windows. In spring it is very intimate with the apple blossoms, which toss rosy sprays into the crystal air to break about its feet. In summer, as now, the roses pour white and red and golden wine on the doorstep. In autumn, the gayest leaves come drifting by to settle on the verandah, and even the snow seems to like it, so high and white does it heap itself about the doors. Inside, the very best of the house is in my room. Father calls it the "Heart of the Home." If it is that, it beats in grey and rose, and lovely old blue. Grey in the walls and floor, and rose and blue in the cretonnes of curtains and mahogany furniture. All day long I lie in a four-poster bed, which belonged to a great, great, grandmamma, and is stationed in a big bay-window. I can look out over the hills, which in fancy I am always climbing. Many people come to see me here. They bring me their troubles and their joys, and I suffer and am glad with them, vicariously. One by one you shall meet them as our correspondence continues. For indeed, I hope it will. But with just one condition. Never by hook or crook or dark wiles, must you procure my name from our "postman." For then the spell will break, and I will vanish like the apparitions in the fairy stories. That blot is where I stopped to look at an absurd cow which wandered slowly across my line of vision, over the road and into the orchard. Such an amusing and defiant tail! So melancholy an eye! It has been raining this morning, and now there is palest sunlight through veils of mist. Somewhere, a bird is being very happy about something. Through an open window comes the fragrance of growing, rain-wet things. Surely you, city-bound, miss half of life.