Warsaw, Monday.
We arrived last night, in a pouring rain. I went to bed as soon as we reached the hotel; therefore, all I know of the city is that the pavements are passable, and the buildings large.
We drove from the station in two carriages. Judith and Tom took all the bags, and started before us at a rattling pace, looking triumphantly back at us as we plodded on more soberly.
Presently we overtook our friends, with only three wheels on their carriage, and Tom climbing ignominiously out of the upper door! They reached the hotel in a very muddy state, some time after us. Nothing could put either of them out of temper, however, and Judith only sighed as she examined the injuries her hat had received.
This morning dawned doubtfully, but soon decided to be showery. It seems to be an impossibility for the sun to shine in Russia at this season. If I could get a glimpse of God's clear blue sky, I am sure that this dull weight, which has lain on my heart for so long, would be lifted.
"I am going out," Tom announced, "and if you wish to see the town, you had better all come with me."
"Will you wait until after breakfast?" I suggested mildly.
Tom looked at me critically.
"Dorris, you are ill! Why don't you confess it, and give up?"
