Julia, of whom I wrote in “The Way of Martha and the Way of Mary,” as a type of a Martha, has had a year of pain, caught erysipelas from a servant, and this developed into a sort of blood-poisoning. Sores appeared all over her body, and then one big sore threatening her with death; she has been, as it were, vivisected through the open wound all the summer, and felt that she herself must have cut up live animals for science’s sake in some previous existence, and is now living through the animals’ experience that her soul may really know what it means. She has been in terror lest her sisters should be infected from her and she has been afraid lest she should die and they be left without her motherly protection. Poor Julia! But I left her on a fair way to recovery. Little Lena is very well. The old lady, the Queen of Spades, is more frail and is suffering from the effects of a bad fall. Varvara Ilyinitchna is much older, has lost a son, has had heart attacks, and is bound to take things more easily. Alexander Fedotch looks extremely well. The daughter is matron of a small hospital, and has a wonderful time with her men. Amelia Vasschevina, the old grandmother, has sold the white house, has paid her debts and has a large margin over. I fear, however, high prices will whittle her little fortune of ready money away. Her daughter Masha, the despair of all doctors, suffering from an incurable internal complaint which has been diagnosed as cancer, appendicitis, neuritis, inflammation of the solar plexus and what not, and for which she has had all manner of treatment and swallowed all sorts of medicine, has recommenced her work as a dentist. And though suffering agonies of pain she has the nerve to doctor teeth and smile at the lugubrious and fearful faces of her patients. Poor Masha, she has been cut open and examined and sewn up again, mesmerised, prayed into, and this last spring a miracle worker was brought to consider her. He always carried about with him an Indian sword. He said: “Don’t tell me what you think is the matter with her or what the symptoms are. That would only make it more difficult for me.” He came into her room took out a bit of glass from a waistcoat pocket, and looked at her face through it. “You will live,” said he, and he dropped his glass and went away. “But I charge you nothing,” he added, and he brandished his sword as he went out at the door. Loosha, of whom I have sometimes written, feels more happy than she has ever done before. What the secret is I do not know. But she has begun to write poetry. Katia of Kief married the young lawyer. He was taken for the war, but the family used influence to bring him back to a safe job in the rear. I do not know what happened to discarded Boris. Mme. Odintsefa is still keen on her evangelicals, and reads Spurgeon’s sermons with the same enthusiasm as in old days she read Mrs. Besant. XIV RUSSIA’S NEW WAR PICTURE