I send you a few bits from my garden as an Easter Greeting. They are not much—but we are in a "nip" of bitter N.E. winds—and nothing will "come out."
Also I rather denuded my patch to send a large box to Undine to make the Easter wreaths for my Mother's grave. I was really rather proud of what I managed to scrape together—every bit out of my very own patch—and consequently of my very own planting!
I've got neuralgia to-day with the wind and a fourteen-miles drive for luncheon and two sets of callers since I got back!—so I can't write a letter—but I want you to tell me when you think there's a chance of your taking a run to see me! I seem to have such lots to say! I have found another charm (besides red pots) of our market. If one goes very early on Saturday—one gets such nice old-fashioned flowers, "roots," and big ones too—very cheap! It's a most fascinating ruination by penny-worths!
Good luck to you, dear, in your fresh settling down in the Heimath Land.
Mrs. M—— (where we were lunching) asked tenderly after my large young family—as strangers usually do. Then she said, "But you write so sympathetically of children, and 'A Soldier's Children' is so real—I thought they must be yours." On which I explained the Dear Queers to her. To whom be love! and to Richard.
Ever, dear, yours lovingly,
J.H.E.
To Mrs. Going.
Midsummer Day, 1884.