"Our life here goes on as delightfully as ever. Nice is very full of
people, and there seem to be some pleasant ones among them. Here at
the Pension Suisse we do not see a great many Americans. The
fellow-boarders are principally Germans and Austrians with a
sprinkling of French. (Amy has found her twenty-four red pebbles, so
she is let off from being an owl. She is now engaged in throwing
them one by one into the sea. Each must hit the water under penalty
of her being turned into a Muscovy duck. She doesn't know exactly
what a Muscovy duck is, which makes her all the more particular
about her shots.) But, as I was saying, our little _suite_ in the
round tower is so on one side of the rest of the Pension that it is
as good as having a house of our own. The _salon_ is very bright and
sunny; we have two sofas and a square table and a round table and a
sort of what-not and two easy-chairs and two uneasy chairs and a
lamp of our own and a clock. There is also a sofa-pillow. There's
richness for you! We have pinned up all our photographs on the
walls, including Papa's and Clovy's and that bad one of Phil and
Johnnie making faces at each other, and three lovely red and yellow
Japanese pictures on muslin which Rose Red put in my trunk the last
thing, for a spot of color. There are some autumn leaves too; and we
always have flowers and in the mornings and evenings a fire.

"Amy is now finding fifty snow-white pebbles, which when found are
to be interred in one common grave among the shingle. If she fails
to do this, she is to be changed to an electrical eel. The chief
difficulty is that she loses her heart to particular pebbles. 'I
can't bury you,' I hear her saying.

"To return,--we have jolly little breakfasts together in the