We have taken this house for three months--a larger house than we need.

We have a row of plane trees before the door in which the cicale sing all day, and the beautiful mountains stand close around, keeping us fresh with shadows.

Penini thinks he is in Eden--_at least he doesn't think otherwise_.

We have a garden and an arbour, and the fireflies light us up at nights.

With all this, I am sorry for Florence.