April 6.--Easter Sunday. I am writing in my sitting-room window. I raise
my eyes and see first the broad window-sill, whereon stand pots of musk
and geranium, not yet in flower; then through the clear latticed panes,
the bee-haunted garden, descending by tiny grassy terraces to the
kitchen-garden with its rows of peas and beans, its beds of lettuce and
potatoe, its neat patches of parsley and thyme; then a field beyond. I
note the double meandering hedge-line that indicates the high road, and
beyond again the ground rises in sun-bathed pastures and ploughed land
to the gorse-covered cliff edge with its background of pure sky; a
little to the right, yet still in full view from my window, is an abrupt
dip in the cliff, which shows a great wedge of glittering sea. It is
here that my eyes always ultimately rest, until they ache with the
dazzle and the beauty, and then by a natural transition I think
of--Catherine.
At this moment she is probably dressing to go to church, and is
absorbed in the contemplation of a new hat. I should think she had as
many hats on her head as hairs--no, I don't mean that; it suggests
visions of "ole clo'es"--I mean she must have almost as many hats as
hairs on her head.
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