I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that
horrid paper.

Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious
deepshaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes
and gnarly trees.

Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little
private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful
shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy
I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John
has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says
that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making, a
nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of
excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense
to check the tendency. So I try.

I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a
little it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.

But I find I get pretty tired when I try.

It is so discouraging not to have any advice and
companionship about my work. When I get really well, John says
we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he
says he would as soon put fireworks in my pillow-case as to let
me have those stimulating people about now.

I wish I could get well faster.