Sunday morning. The snow lies so white and pure over the streets and on the branches of the trees. It is so quiet, so very quiet, just as it uses to be in the sundaymorning. The bells are ringing from the church. And I dont know what to do. I have read a while in a German book. “Albin Intergand”, but it is not interesting enough for me now. I read it only for the languages sake.

Yesterday morning I was down at Ekebergs and Heddy and I played à-quatre-mains. It was very pleasant. We nearly learned two pieces together, and tomorrow will I go there again and we will play more. I hade promised Eric to telephone him this morning, and so I did, but he had scarcely awakened then, at half past nine, so he said, that he would telephone after he had dressed and eaten breakfast. I wonder how long time it will take.

So I have written a letter to Rakel, that dear girl. I dont like writing letters half as much as I did before. Then I could write two, three papers in a little while now I think it´s a hard work to write only one. And I am merely glad, when my friends not hasten with their answers, because I then need not write so often. But letters from home will I have as often as possible and there I write once a week to Rut or dear mother.