Rose Douglas

March 22nd

A beautiful bright day and such have been our last four or five. The change from our long rainy damp spell is truly delightful. The weather is just cool enough to make thick clothing comfortable, and give us excellent appetites. We are now about 13,000 miles from the Cape and some 36 or 37 days from New York, so taking it all in all, we have done pretty well. I shall be glad when we have passed the Cape and are fairly sailing up toward the Equator. Then comes San Francisco and our letters. Oh, how I already long for them.

Williams finished reading “Rose Douglas” this morning. He thinks it was written by the author of “Mary Powell”. We both like the book very much. It is very interesting and the style pleasing; a good healthy book. Its effect must be good, cannot be otherwise. However, there is one thing in it I do not like and that is the unhappy end of her unkind relations; that has rather a spiteful vindictive look. Williams will now read “Marie Antoinette” by Abbott. I do love to have Williams read to me. It is so pleasant to read the same book together and talk about it. Although I have not mentioned it to him yet I have been quite amused with the earnest manner in which Williams has discussed Rose Douglas  – the same as if he had been conversing about a term founded on fact story. It is just what he is always accusing me of and laughing at me for. For my part, I like much to converse about a book of this kind in that way. I become as deeply interested as if all were real. I fancy and seem to become personally acquainted with the characters introduced; also the scenes and places I had visited. I always had this peculiarity from a child and I can now recall books that I read then, the scenes of which are as vivid to my mind’s eye as if I had in reality but just visited the place. In conversing last evening with Williams I found it was the same with him, even in a greater degree. I really was amused with this perfect exactness of his.

170 miles today.