The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people. I do not like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! But John would not hear of it. He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another. He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction. So we took the nursery at the top of the house. It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was a nursery first and then a playroom, I should judge, for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls. The paint and paper look as if a school for boys had used it. It is stripped off — the paper — in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling, flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. I am sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition. The great bedstead is fairly gnawed at the corners, but I must not let my mind wander.