So I have closed my little iron gate,--Madge, Peter, Don, and I inside, and all the world shut outside. Perhaps I am moved by the instinct of the hurt animal to go away by itself and hide. It cannot be wrong--now; henceforth I must live in the past; the dropping of the latch will be the signal, and the old days will slip back one by one over the brick wall. I shall establish a blockade; haven't I a right? The pain, at times, is more than I can bear, and every face I see recalls the sight of happy people, the sight of wretched people alike. Safe, with my sorrow, inside these walls; and outside, the surge of great sorrows, anguish, perplexity. October 8. Of course I take long walks day by day, yet nothing more intensifies my sense of loss, perhaps, because we walked so much together. The country is as green as it was that July day when we stopped and helped the haymakers in the Oxford meadows, and they jeered good-naturedly at our way of raking. I have found relief in watching the harvesting and the gathering of the fruit; looking resolutely at field and stream, centering mind and soul there, my grief softens and grows more kind. Everywhere I see the picturesque and finished charm of English life. As I climb the hill past the church, the old, old woman who lives in the little house by the lych gate,--the churchyard gate, the gate of the dead,--and sells gingerbread, biscuit, and ginger ale, is putting out her wares. She is so old, so much a part of the other world, she lives so near the edge of this, that I half suspect her, as I catch a glimpse of the green mounds through the rusted wrought-iron bars, of ministering to those we cannot see. None but the English would think of selling gingerbread at heaven's gate! Over the soft gurgle of ale from the stone jars we exchange greetings; she is only another of your daring and delightful incongruities, seen in the gargoyles on your cathedrals, the jokes in your tragedies, and the licensed mischief of your Oxford students on Commemoration Day.