“I haven’t written to you all these weeks because I was determined not to write to Russia until I was settled and happy and married for life. Then, also, you yourself have not written. Have you all, over there, forgotten me? Russians never do write letters, do they? I don’t suppose I ought to be disappointed—you warned me. If I’d forgotten all of you there—but I haven’t. I thought for a time that I had, but I haven’t ... then a bell rings, and all the servants troop in and kneel down in a row with their heels up, and George Trenchard reads a bit out of the New Testament and, very fast, a prayer about ‘Thy humble servants’, and he has his eye on the weather out of the window all the time. Afterwards there is the Post—also eggs, bacon, marmalade, brown bread and white and the family arriving one by one with ‘sorry I’m late!’ Fancy a Russian saying: ‘Sorry I’m late’!... so the day’s begun. Afterwards, everyone has their own especial job. I don’t know what my especial job is supposed to be. George has his writing and the whole place—fences, weeds, horses, dogs—anything yon like. He fancies himself Walter Scott at Abbotsford, and is as happy as the day is long; Mrs. Trenchard has the village and the inside of the house (with Katherine her lieutenant). There is no living soul from the infant of a week to the old man of ninety-seven (John Wesley Moyle—he sees visions) who does not have his or her life exactly and precisely arranged. Mrs. Trenchard has a quiet hypnotic power that fills me with terror, because I know that I shall soon be ranged with all the others. She is kindness itself I am sure, and no cloud passing across the sun’s face makes less sound—and yet she has always her way. Oh, Paul, old man, I’m frightened of her as I have never been of anyone before. When I see her here I want to run. I had a horrible dream last night. The terror of it is with me still. I thought that I said good-night to everyone and went up to my bedroom. To my surprise I found Mrs. Trenchard there, and instead of my usual bed was an enormous feather-bed—an _enormous_ one stretching from wall to wall. ‘You will sleep on that to-night,’ said Mrs. Trenchard, pointing to it. In some way I knew that if I once lay down upon it I should never get up again. I said ‘No, I would not lie down.’ ‘I think you’d better,’ she said in her slow way. ‘I think you’d better.’ ‘No!’ I cried, ‘I defy you!’ Instantly the feather-bed like a cloud rose, filled the room, was above me, under me, around me. It pressed in upon me. I tore at it, and the feathers floated in a great stifling fog against my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth. I screamed for mercy, I fought, I fell, I was suffocating, death was driving down upon me ... I woke. There’s nonsense for you! And yet not such nonsense neither. On a stuffy day here, when everything steams and the trees and grass and hedges close up about the house like an army, when Mrs. Trenchard, with Katherine, is arranging