Bertie is getting a little bored, and is restless, but is so much better that he is very good-natured about it. He takes a short walk with me in the forest every day, and a row when the sun is full on the lake. I often row him, it is so good to have him all to myself. Agatha has been the best of mothers to us, but after all she is _not_ our mother, and she is almost too old for a sister. We love her, but we love each other far more, more indeed than we ever have loved any one else, but Dad; and sometimes when in his wretched physical weakness Bertie drops his head on my shoulder, and becomes as confidential with me as in his innocent boy days, I see into a soul that has more good in it than bad, and much strength in spite of the sad weakness his broken confessions reveal. I am sure now that if he recovers he will become as useful, if not as great, a man as Dad. Ah, there was a man! He admired Agatha from a distance, but he kept us two so close to him that we ought to be a thousand times better and more sensible than we are. But he has been dead six long years, Bertie has rank and riches, and I am beautiful. What hope that the world would let us alone! Agatha is so happy at Bertie’s improvement that she does not care--except on his account--whether the lake people come up at all or not, and, besides, she is too good to be bored. I do not mean that sarcastically, for these people who are constantly thinking of others never have time to sit down and commiserate their Ego. This evening I was down at the edge of the lake watching the sunset--a blue one of many shades, from limpid pale blue lakes to masses of rich ultramarine, instead of the usual splendour of red and gold--when the keeper passed me in a boat. He paused and pointed to the end of the lake. “Fog’s goin’ up the mountain, Miss,” he said. “Sure sign of rain; and I heard a cuckoo in the woods to-day, another sign as never fails. I guess them big fireplaces’ll come in handy for a day or two.” Fortunately we have plenty to read. I forgot to tell you that Jemima, our erstwhile handmaiden, of whom I wrote you, and who is now “visiting” the lake-keeper’s family, yesterday brought me two charming offerings, a basket of wild strawberries from the meadow and a bunch of half-wild half-cultivated pink roses. I simply buried my face in the roses, their sweetness was so poignant, so delicious, that I wanted to inhale and absorb it all at once, and I pressed them to every bit of my face and neck. The strawberries, too, were so fragrant! such tiny things, but with a most agreeable acid sweetness. I have not seen Bertie enjoy anything so much for a long time; and when I could no longer smell my roses--alas! for the quick blunting of mortal sense!--I smothered Bertie’s face in their pink fragrance and enjoyed them again, vicariously. 24th