ABSTRACT
I am sitting quite alone while the Drawing Class goes on; two sycamore-trees are rustling their leaves as if in sympathy with the grey clouds which are drifting hurriedly along; the smoke pours down, the leaves lie scattered on the ground, only one green tuft speaks of life. The air is thick and hot, and the occasional roll of distant carriages disturbs the silence. Damp, heavy, and dull are sky and earth. Oh, where are all the glad thoughts that sometimes surround me? Where is all the power of sympathy? We are going back to live at Russell Place at the same old house where the Ladies' Guild was carried on.
