Here we are in July; but I won't write it over again.

The 'tables' are speaking alphabetically and intelligently in Paris; they knock with their legs on the floor, establishing (what was clear enough before to _me_) the connection between the table-moving and 'rapping spirits.' Sarianna--who is of the unbelieving of temperaments, as you know--wrote a most curious account to me the other day of a seance at which she had been present, composed simply of one or two of our own honest friends and of a young friend of theirs, a young lady....[23] She says that she 'was not as much impressed as she would have been,' 'but I am bound to tell the truth, that I _do not think it possible that any tricks could have been played_.' This from Sarianna is equal to the same testimony--from Mr.Chorley, say! We are planning a retreat into the mountains--into Giotto's country, the Casentino--where we are to find a villa for almost nothing, and shall have our letters sent daily from Florence, together with books and newspapers.

I look forward to it with joy.

We promise one another to be industrious _a faire fremir_, so as to make the pleasure lawful.

Little Penini walks about, talking of 'mine villa,' anxiously hoping that 'some boys' may not have pulled all the flowers before he gets there.