Everybody who sees my pictures—that is to say, everybody who comes inside our garden gate—admires them immensely. It is extraordinary that in a little village like Willows there should be so many good judges of art. Our laundress, now, Mrs. Stiggins—she thinks the world of them. A fig for that fellow!
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I now paint freely about in the village. Nobody bothers me, as I feared they would. Perhaps, out of sheer courtesy, they come and look over my shoulder. But they never stay long. I think they fear to intrude.
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I have given one of my pictures to Mrs. Stiggins. Signed. It is a picture of her pretty cottage. She came and watched me as I painted it, and I gave it to her.
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My picture of Mrs. Stiggins's cottage is hung—nailed, I should say. I have seen it in Mrs. Stiggins's parlour. On one side is the almanac of a friendly society. On the other is a large shell with a view of Bournemouth Pier inside it.
