[Manchester—Monday, 12 August 1867]
Monday. Cool and perfect in its beauty—the air like chrystal—exquisite contrast to the hot fogs wh. have wrapped us of late. The frequent rains too have made the grass like June. The little house-organ at our neighbours, the pastor’s, is already playing in this early morning as I write—sending up a voice of worship. This was the last sound I heard before I slept.
