October 22. I am so excited that I can hardly write; my fingers tremble and make letters that look like bird-tracks. What do you think has happened? Who do you think stopped this afternoon at my little iron gate? It seems a terrible thing, an incredible thing to say, but I could hardly have been happier about it if it had been you. I have so much to do, to think about, while Marie--? Her little world had all been swept away. I was weeding this neglected garden; Peter, leaning on his spade, was eyeing me with some disapproval. "Ladies shouldn't be doing that 'ard work, Miss," he observed. "That's a queer opinion for a socialist," I remarked, tugging at a burdock root. He let me tug and went on with the exposition of his political opinions, quite unaware of my meaning. "This need not keep you from working, Peter," I suggested. "I've no intention of spading that bed." He dug his spade in with a little grunt. "Everybody ought to work; that should be the first article of your socialist creed." "It isn't, 'm," said Peter eagerly. "Wouldn't you respect the House of Lords more if they actually worked, Peter?" This brought him to a full stop. "They do less 'arm as it is, Miss," he said darkly. Here we heard the gate creak; the broken latch gives a little unnecessary click. An odd figure was standing there, looking like a tramp, with worn and battered clothing, a Derby hat with holes in it, and dark hair straggling over his forehead. Don, catching sight of him, barked furiously; I never heard him bark that way. It was as if the whole outraged spirit of the British upper classes were crying out upon the poverty and the misery they have helped create; it was a perfect yelp of class-consciousness. This naturally enlisted my sympathy on the side of the tramp, and I scolded Don and even slapped him a little. I've told him often enough that there is really nothing so vulgar as display of a sense of social superiority, and I do not like these relapses from the democratic spirit that I am trying to cultivate in him. It was the way in which the tramp watched me that made me suspect that he was not a tramp at all; he had big, brown, appealing eyes, like those of a nice dog,--not Don, but a friendly shepherd dog. The way in which he took off his battered hat enlightened me further, as did his little wistful smile. His face was a bit dirty, but my face has been dirty in times past; so, doubtless, has yours, Lord Hamlet. When I greeted him with good afternoon, he took a piece of paper from his pocket, and at first I wondered if he were an Armenian with lace, going about with a letter of introduction from a pastor,--or don't you have them in England? But he did not look like an Armenian, and he very evidently did not have lace, or any other kind of luggage. The paper proved to be the advertisement that I had put in a London paper,--and as I took it, it struck me that those holes in his hat might be bullet holes. "You're not really Henri Dupré?"