Your sweet little letter came this morning, and glad I was to get it! It is the only one from any of the scattered home circle that I have had since I left Princeton. We reached here Sat. afternoon, after a very pleasant journey, and I at least am “having the time of my life.” Stockton's Shakesperian lectures alone were worth coming for. They are perfectly beautiful and the people are mad over them—and over him. It is great fun to see it here among our own people. I am in a wild rush of engagements;—a dinner every day, luncheons, automobile drives, a large reception to me this afternoon &c. &c. Callers begin to come at ten in the morning, old friends who feel that that is perhaps the only time they can find me in. The weather is charming,—glorious sunshine, and the air soft yet fresh enough to make walking a pleasure. I wish you girls could have all been with me yesterday driving on the farms “White Bluff” road;—a forest drive that makes even the Old Gable road seem almost commonplace. It is an avenue leagues long of great, spreading, gnarled old live oaks, their branches meeting overhead, and the long, long festoons of grey moss over all. It was is indescribably majestic, mysterious, wonderful, with the low afternoon sun breaking here and there through the glooms. Coming back we drove at sunset along the marshes, It was enchantingly beautiful;—nature itself seemed to be reciting Sidney Lanier's “Hymns to the Marshes.”—I heard from f your father just before leaving home. He seemed very well and happy;—had a delightful voyage. I am perfectly well, and Stockton too looks well and bright again.
Excuse haste. I am trying to get letters to all three of you off on the eleven o'clock mail. With dearest love