myself to sleep, at the foot of my dear ivory statue.

But you must not think I am always unhappy here. How can I be, where
every thing is so beautiful? And another wondrous thing is, that the
rooms are always changing; not much, but a little, from day to day. I
have never seen any thing move except the silken lady and the
silver-haired old man; and these, with a motion that is not like life;
yet I can perceive that there is a change--just as, while you are
looking at the clouds, you can see that they have taken new forms and
tints, and yet cannot tell how it is. I sometimes think there must be
invisible spirits in the castle, there are such strange lights in the
rooms. Perhaps the statues are enchanted queens and princes, for
there seems to be a presence in each one. I wander from one to
another, and gaze, and gaze. O, how lovely they are! If they were only
alive, it would be almost too great a pleasure to live with such
beautiful people. I sometimes lay my hand upon them, to see if they
are not warm, but quickly draw it back again, they are so very
cold. No lips smile for me, no eye looks into mine, no hand is
stretched out towards me.

How I wish some of you, little children, were here! Any child! The
poorest beggar, in her rags, if she could but speak and move. If the
color would come into her cheeks, and the tears into her eyes, I would
throw my arms around her, and kiss her a hundred times. O, she would
not be made of marble. But good night now. It is very late, and only a
little light comes in through the pearl window. I have written a very
long letter for to-day. To-morrow I will write again, only I shall
have nothing to tell, for the days are all alike here. Good night.

* * * * *