Such a lovely spring day, in spite of its cold wind; it makes me long to be sixteen miles away in my little garden. Even here in London great pure white stately clouds are sailing over the blue. How lucky I am to be going away so soon ! I wish it gave half as much pleasure to the rest of the family as it does to me; but one of the few advantages of old age is that we may be innocently selfish. A day like this makes me think of a little poem that appeared in the Spectator twenty years ago. It was written by a young clergyman's wife, who worked hard amidst the sordid blackness of a manufacturing town on the banks of the Tyne. My young friends will say, 'How morbid are Aunt T.'s quotations!' It is perhaps true; but all bright, lovable, sympathetic souls . had a touch of morbidness in the days that are gone, and these 'Notes' have no meaning at all unless I try to give out in them the impressions received during forty years.