It is sharp on these mountains now, keen, glorious weather. In the house Thisbe cowers over a fire from morning to night. I call it abject; she retorts that no English winter has ever produced in her so much goose-flesh, and that she came to India to be warm. Even I must bend to acknowledge the virtues of a hot-water bottle, and I have abandoned the pencil-cedar; the deck chair now chases the sun. Every hour we shift farther and farther to the west, until at about four o’clock he dips behind the castle of the Princess, and then we grow very grey and melancholy on the shelf. It is, after all, the great sun of India; if it falls steadily upon your feet it will slowly warm them through the shivering air; but nothing, not even a dahlia, must come between you and it. Even a dahlia makes a difference. The glare upon this page is particularly unpleasant, but I have permanently closed my parasol; the double sensation of icy fingers and toasting feet was worse. It is more than I bargained for, a week, as a matter of fact, beyond my contract time; and only the fear of taking cold there keeps me from going into the house. Whatever forebodings the garden feels it puts a brave front upon the matter. It is smart with zinnias now; in ranks they stand, like soldiers, always at attention. I have no patience with people who are too æsthetic for zinnias, who complain of their stiffness and their commonness and what not. I think the zinnia a particularly delightful creature, full of courage and character and cheerful confidence, and here where we have to make such a fight for a bit of colour against the void it is invaluable. It may not be exactly a lovable flower, but what of that? Many of us must be content to be estimable. There is even joy in a zinnia. From where I sit I look through a fringe of them along the paling where they almost glitter in the sun. Beyond are a few dark deodar tops and an oak from which the last yellow leaves are fluttering, fluttering, and behind the tracery of this the blue sky bending to the still sharp snowy ranges. If you shut your eyes and succeed in seeing that, you may almost forget that I am in India and you somewhere else; we are both, really, very near Thibet and not far, I imagine, from heaven.