Speaking of Heaven--do you remember Mr. Kellogg that I told you about
last summer?--the minister of the little white church at the Corners.
Well, the poor old soul is dead--last winter of pneumonia. I went
half a dozen times to hear him preach and got very well acquainted
with his theology. He believed to the end exactly the same things
he started with. It seems to me that a man who can think straight
along for forty-seven years without changing a single idea ought to
be kept in a cabinet as a curiosity. I hope he is enjoying his harp
and golden crown; he was so perfectly sure of finding them! There's a
new young man, very consequential, in his place. The congregation
is pretty dubious, especially the faction led by Deacon Cummings.
It looks as though there was going to be an awful split in the church.
We don't care for innovations in religion in this neighbourhood.

During our week of rain I sat up in the attic and had an orgy
of reading--Stevenson, mostly. He himself is more entertaining
than any of the characters in his books; I dare say he made himself
into the kind of hero that would look well in print. Don't you
think it was perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars
his father left, for a yacht, and go sailing off to the South Seas?
He lived up to his adventurous creed. If my father had left me ten
thousand dollars, I'd do it, too. The thought of Vailima makes
me wild. I want to see the tropics. I want to see the whole world.
I am going to be a great author, or artist, or actress, or playwright--
or whatever sort of a great person I turn out to be. I have a
terrible wanderthirst; the very sight of a map makes me want to put
on my hat and take an umbrella and start. `I shall see before I die
the palms and temples of the South.'