'What book did you say, miss?' asks Fleur de Marie. ('Where _does_ she get those lilies and roses? I saw none like them in the garden this morning. Ah! many of the dames who enter here from their carriages would also like to ask my question--since they do not seem to find them even at Newport!) 'If you please, _what_ book?' again inquire the Roses. 'Oh!' I answer, 'I was looking, and forgot what I came for; is 'Out of his Head' _in_ yet?' The fair librarian evidently thinks I am out of mine. Ah! would that I were, and out of my whole body; but no! ingrate that I am, to-day I should be content--simply _to be_; even a cabbage ought to be happy in such perfect summer weather. T. B. Aldrich _is_ in--as much as he ever is supposed to be; but I recall now that I read his sketchy book the other night, while I was brushing my hair, giving it a sort of 'good time generally,' letting it run wild a little before going to sleep. I read 'Pierre Antoine's Date Tree' quite through, and liked--the _last part_ very much indeed. There are some people whom I am always very glad to have visit me, because I feel so 'dreadful glad' when they go away. So, also, it compensates one to read certain books for the sake of the delicious sensation one experiences on finishing them! What a pile of '_Les Miserables_,' Fantine? _C'est assez miserable._ The 'Hunchback' is the least deformed of Hugo's offspring; but I read _that_ last Sunday morn--no; I mean last Saturday evening; for I went to church on Tremont street, last Sunday. What's this? it looks as tempting as a banana, and is not unlike one in color. 'Melibaeus in London,' in the summer, too: good! I'll take that, it shall 'assist' the banana at my lunch. I hurry out of this 'little heaven,' murmuring, as I depart: 'LORING, live forever!' Lady Macbeth undoubtedly alluded to you when she says: 'We _fail_? there's no such word as fail!' I believe the Macbeths, and, in fact, everybody but Loring, has failed during the war times. McClellan certainly has--not succeeded. The police (those gentlemen of elegant leisure) do not even suspect how much I have stolen, and what treasures I am carrying off before nine o'clock A. M.! All the splendors of the early morning are mine; they will gild the dull grey of my working hours. What a stock of perfumes stolen from the garden! they will sweeten the 'business air' of Washington street. The fountain's glistening spray will sprinkle the dusty walk to 'the shop.' I have not yet told you of the kisses taken--not from Fera's, but from the cherry-ripe lips of two lovely children, with whom I formed an intimacy in the garden by the pond; they were 'sailing' their mimic boats there. I almost wished 'I were a boy again,'