sideways quite soon, I should think, for Frau Berg fills us up daily
with dumplings, and I'm certain they must end by somehow showing; and I
haven't had a single cold since I've been here, so I'm outgrowing them
at last; and I'm not sitting up late reading,--I couldn't if I tried,
for Wanda, the general servant, who is general also in her person
rather than particular--aren't I being funny--comes at ten o'clock each
night on her way to bed and takes away my lamp.

"Rules," said Frau Berg briefly, when I asked if it wasn't a little
early to leave me in the dark. "And you are not left in the dark.
Have I not provided a candle and matches for the chance infirmities of
the night?"

But the candle is cheap and dim, so I don't sit up trying to read by
that. I preserve it wholly for the infirmities.

I've been in the Thiergarten most of the afternoon, sitting in a green
corner I found where there is some grass and daisies down by a pond and
away from a path, and accordingly away from the Sunday crowds. I
watched the birds, and read the Winter's Tale, and picked some daisies,
and felt very happy. The daisies are in a saucer before me at this
moment. Everything smelt so good,--so warm, and sweet, and young, with
the leaves on the oaks still little and delicate. Life is an admirable
arrangement, isn't it, little mother. It is so clever of it to have a
June in every year and a morning in every day, let alone things like
birds, and Shakespeare, and one's work. You've sometimes told me, when
I was being particularly happy, that there were even greater happiness
ahead for me,--when I have a lover, you said; when I have a husband;
when I have a child. I suppose you know, my wise, beloved mother; but
the delight of work, of doing the work well that one is best fitted