I've had a most beautiful day, the best since I left you. I didn't
speak to a soul all day, and found a place up behind Sans Souci on the
edge of a wood looking out over a ryefield to an old windmill, and
there I sat for hours; and after I had finished remembering what I
could of the Scholar Gypsy, which is what one generally does when one
sits in summer on the edge of a cornfield, I sorted out my thoughts.
They've been getting confused lately in the rush of work day after day,
as confused as the drawer I keep my gloves and ribbons in, thrusting
them in as I take them off and never having time to tidy. Life tears
along, and I have hardly time to look at my treasures. I'm going to
look at them and count them up on Sundays. As the summer goes on I'll
pilgrimage out every Sunday to the woods, as regularly as the pious go
to church, and for much the same reason,--to consider, and praise, and
thank.

I took your two letters with me, reading them again in the woods. They
seemed even more dear out there where it was beautiful. You sound so
content, darling mother, about me, and so full of belief in me. You
may be very sure that if a human being, by trying and working, can
justify your dear belief it's your Chris. The snapshot of the border
full of Canterbury bells makes me able to picture you. Do you wear the
old garden hat I loved you so in when you garden? Tell me, because I
want to think of you _exactly_. It makes my mouth water, those
Canterbury bells. I can see their lovely colours, their pink and blue
and purple, with the white Sweet Williams and the pale lilac violas you
write about. Well, there's nothing of that in the Lutzowstrasse. No
wonder I went away from it this morning to go out and look for June in
the woods. The woods were a little thin and austere, for there has
been no rain lately, but how enchanting after the barren dustiness of