Aunt Dinks has been very kind, but although I have met a great many people I have not made many friends.

I have seen nobody whom I like as much as Amy Waring or Mr.Lawrence Newt, of whom I wrote you from New York, and they have neither of them been here.

I think of Pinewood a great deal, but it seems to me long and long ago that I used to live there.

It is strange how much older and different I feel.

But I never forget you, dearest Aunty, and I should like this very moment to stand by your side at your window as I used to, and look out at the hills, or, better still, to lie in your lap or on my bed, and hear you sing one of the dear old hymns.