AH! you good friend, both the letter and the book have come. If either had come by itself, I would have thanked you most for it; but as they came together, I—I thank you most for—both. How could I do less? “Fifty-two, did you say it was?” No, I did not say. I never meddle with figures. If I do, I am sure to get the worst of it. I do not like to get worsted. Do you? As for a woman’s telling her age, who expects it? The silly! As a matter of fact, I can say, in a general way, I am old enough, though I might be older; and young enough, though I might be younger. I might be sixty-two; I might be even no more than forty, yet the trouble is I am neither. So far as all the world is concerned, it has no concern whatever in the matter. So far as you are, I have a misgiving you know without my telling. I only wish you had not known before you finished the book; and that you had asked me, and when I thus declined to tell on myself, you had wrought yourself into a fume about it. But don’t I feel cheated that I shall never know how you would have threshed out that cereal! Is not it a curious fact that overproduction is one of the ills of the present period of our little planet’s history?

Those thousands of pictures! That magnificent, enormous “Salon!” Can you believe it—there are ever so many other “Expositions” in full blast? They come in such numbers and swift succession, to see each is to wipe out the memory of the one just seen as the succeeding wave does that just gone before. Yet the great names are a temptation you do not even dream of struggling against. You would not if you could. The last time it was Millet’s. I hope you have seen his “L’Angelus,” or at least an engraving. There is the original or a replica, in Baltimore, I think, which has been exhibited in the United States. I had seen an engraving only, but it was an imperishable memory. When it was mentioned as one of a full collection of his works to be exhibited, you will see I could not have missed it.

I wish I dare attempt to describe the many out of it that won at once my most enthusiastic homage. Almost all peasants and peasant life, shepherds and shepherdesses, with their flocks, peasant women feeding children or chickens, harvest fields and gleaners—the subjects so simple and homely, the treatment just the magic of brush and colors, the mastery of genius. Not all held me equally; but all that I liked held me absolutely. I never had a more unalloyed enjoyment. How I wish I could buy all of them and bring them home with me! Not one was for sale, all being loaned by their owners for the purpose of realizing enough to erect a monument to his memory.

But I can’t talk any more about pictures. I want to thank you for “the little book.” Thank you for it, from its very inscription, through every phase of its working out, to the finished volume I have just read and laid down with a pang because it is ended, because there is no more. It is a book. It is worth having written; worth having taken time to write. It merits all the praise lavished upon it. There is not a word too much. It may be like all those they liken it to, but it is most like yourself. There can be no question of the brilliancy within, the handling of such vast and varied materials; of the enormous reading, the close attention, the critical observations, the careful judgment, the good taste, necessary for such an acquisition of knowledge and information as you have so delightfully utilised. The best about it is not that it is brimming over with this information, brilliancy, entertainingness, power, but that it is full of wisdom as well. The combination to such degree is not common.

It came—“the little book”—at nine last night. I read the letter, and another from another gentleman, then began to handle it. I cut the string; took off the wrapping; looked at the binding; pondered over the title, liking it better and better; then—the reluctant plunge. I knew I ought not begin reading, as if I should become interested I could not stop. Late reading tells so on me. Besides, it is the worst form of “late”—keeping right on till the book is finished. Well, you or some one had cut only a part of the leaves. You got the full credit. I said when I began: “How thoughtful in him to cut the leaves.” Directly I found some were left for me to do—of course, exactly when I could least bear to lose a moment. My paper-knife went through with a rip, I can tell you. On again, almost holding my breath, or swept away in a convulsion of laughter. Then more leaves to cut. I became suspicious, and said something not altogether amiable, maybe: “He did this on purpose.” There was repetition of cut and uncut all the way through; and I shall always believe, even though you convince me to the contrary, that you did this with malice prepense—knowing the obstruction and interruption would act like salt on thirst. At midnight I said: “I will not read another word.” I was very tired, having had a long drive, nearly from noon till night. A word about that drive. It was with an invalid heiress, the same I have mentioned. I wish she and you might “make a match of it.” She is so bright and every way agreeable, besides having the fortune!

The drive was in the Champs ElysÉes and the Bois du Boulogne, the fashionable resort. It is always a kind of gay carnival of fashion. The brilliant afternoons; the handsome equipages, the elegant occupants arrayed as not Solomon in all his glory was. The—your—sex not less so than mine! You ought to have seen one I saw yesterday. Alone in his open carriage, evidently “got up” to attract attention; a lilac ribbon tie; vest of silk, matching in color; boutonniÈre of flowers in the same dainty color; and pantaloons of plaid lilac and white. Was not that a spectacle? But once in the beautiful park, such visions were lost sight of. The sky, air foliage and flowers were Eden’s own. I got out of the carriage and gathered her hands full of daisies and anemones. She sat in the shadow and quiet of the trees watching me. One avenue was specially interesting. On the left were pretty bits of water, scarcely lakes, low hills with tumbling cascades, stretches of thick-set trees and flowery hedges. On the right, vanishing distances of the greenest sward, edged with scattered clumps of trees, blotched with alternate sunshine and shadow. Away off rose the hills that encircle Paris—a misty greenish-black rampart against the sky. Sometimes we talked; sometimes were silent. These blessed long days! At six o’clock we came home, lest she should become too much fatigued. But I could not stay indoors, and went out again for a walk. I came back loaded with old-fashioned spice pinks—have not you some in your garden?—and great golden marguerites.

But “the little book.” This morning I was at it again long before getting-up time. The maid smiled when she came in at seven. And now I have read it, and knowing the pleasure of the reading, I can not help wishing more of it was still to do.

Hurry and write another, please. Why not “A Club of Two. From the note-book of a woman who was sociable?” Beat Mrs. Caudle if you like, or Prue. I am so glad you have given “Prue and I” a place in your book. It has always been one of my giving-away books. Only the other day I was telling of it to some who do not know it. Think of their loss.

Can not say a word about coming, but that it will be soon.

L. G. C.

Paris, May 29, 1887.