top shelf of the cupboard in a hurry, and the Molly that came out of
that room was ready for life--and a lot of it.

And again, fortunately, Aunt Adeline had retired with a violent
headache, and Jane was carrying her in a hot water-bottle with a broad
smile on her face. Jane sees the world from the kitchen window and
understands everything. She had laid a large thick letter on the hall
table where I couldn't fail to see it.

I took possession of it and carried it to a bench in the garden that
backs up against the purple sprayed lilacs and is flanked by two rows of
tall purple and white iris that stand in line ready for a Virginia reel
with a delicate row of the poet's narcissus across the broad path. I
love my flowers. I love them swaying on their stems in the wind, and I
like to snatch them and crush the life out of them against my breast and
face. I have been to bed every night this spring with a bunch of cool
violets against my cheek, and I feel that I am going to dance with my
tall row of hollyhocks as soon as they are old enough to hold up their
heads and take notice. They always remind me of very stately gentlemen,
and I have wondered if the little narcissus weren't shaking their
ruffles at them.

A real love-letter ought to be like a cream puff with a drop of dynamite
in it. Alfred's was that kind. I felt warm and happy down to my toes as
I read it, and I turned round so that old Lilac Bush couldn't peep over
my shoulder at what he said.

He wrote from Rome this time, where he had been sent on some sort of
diplomatic mission to the Vatican, and his letter about the Ancient City
on her seven hills was a prose-poem in itself. I was so interested that