GREEN HILL June.

Has it seemed long to you, little Diary? Yet it is just a year since my first entry was made. I'm writing now in my room with the windows wide. Bill has just called up to me that my pink rose-bush is in flower. I must go down and see. I can hear Mother on the lawn talking to Mrs. Goodrich and Father and Peter. Or is it Wiggles? She employs almost the same tone toward both of them. And Sarah, a good ten years younger than last year, is out where the new cottage is soon to be.

She has the builder with her, and I know that they are disagreeing. It will be a boon to Sarah to have the Simpson tribe--as much of it as are carpenters--working on her house for her. A pretty revenge!

"A new Doctor has come to Green Hill!" Just a year ago--Diary--and since then so much has happened. So much sorrow and happiness, loss and gain. It is hard to believe that it is I who write, Mavis of Green Hill.

The people have been so good since I came home: so glad for me. They tell me I look a different person--and why not, pray? For I am strong and well and most divinely happy, Diary, and it is pleasant to be able to write that down for you--after all the despondencies I did not spare your pages.

There's the new house to build--and this one to remodel in the Fall--and the garage already under way. It will be ready for Silas to putter about in by the time he comes North. And in August we are to expect Mercedes, which means Wright, of course. I have been able to persuade the Howells that Cuba is all very well, but Mercedes must be married from my house--and they have consented. I think that Mr.

Howells is glad that it will be so.

The reviewers have been kind to Bill's new book. It was rushed through and appeared early this month. The secret has been let out, of course, and the poor villagers of Green Hill are mightily embarra.s.sed at having harbored a famous poet for so long without knowing it. And they get the name quite confused. It's "Doctor Warren" half the time!

My dear old Dr. Mac has been to see us more than once. We've had wonderful evenings, in the late June dusk, a happy family, lacking nothing, content with just living and loving--

Mother and Dr. Mac are such friends. She actually flirts with him, in her Dresden China way, and he growls. But he likes it. I am sure he is half in love with her already--he couldn't very well help being.

Bill's here--his hand on my shoulder, smelling nicely of damp, new earth!

"Go away!"

"Why?"

"I'm writing!"

"So I see--but what, little wife?"

"The end of a story."

And under his eyes, Diary, I have turned back your pages and drawn a thick, black line through that pitiful entry made on my wedding day--drawn a thicker, blacker line through that sombre little word "Finis."

"Kiss me, William Denton!"

And now, with his kiss on my lips, I have turned back to what I have just written and am writing, letter by letter, with a steady hand and a high heart, between laughter and tears, two firm, exultant words:

THE BEGINNING