How beautiful they were, those old people - I mean father and 
mother - how simple, how clear, how untroubled. I have been 
dipping into old letters and father's memoirs. He loved her: 
oh and was so candid and reasonable and transparent . . . 
How serene and gay even, their life reads to me: no mud; 
no whirlpools. And so human - with the children and the 
little hum and song of the nursery. But if I read as a 
contemporary I shall lose my child's vision and so must
stop. Nothing turbulent; nothing involved; no introspection.