ening_. Without choice, I found myself walking round the pond
again. It was as smooth as glass, and the leaves scarcely trembled on
the trees and bushes round it. And in my heart reigned a similar calm.
A strange quiet has fallen on my usually restless and anxious mind. I
thought that in future I could be content not to look beyond the
present duty, and, having done my best in all circumstances, that I
could leave the results to follow as God wills. At that moment I could
sincerely say, "Let him set me high or low, wherever he has work for
me to perform." If I can remain thus quiet in mind, my health will
soon return, I feel assured.

"_If!_" A well-founded distrust, I fear. This peace must be only a
mood, to pass away when my natural spirits return. The fever of
covetousness, of rivalry, of envy, and ambitious earthly aspirations,
will come back. Like waves upon the lake, these uneasy feelings will
chase each other over my soul. I picked up a little linen wristband at
this moment, which I recognized. "She does not deserve to have it
again, sulky Little Ugly!" said I. "I will put it in my pocket-book,
and keep it as a remembrancer, for--I am glad to perceive--this is the
very spot where we stood when we agreed to remember it and each other
fifteen years hence. We will see what I shall be then, and I shall
have some aid from this funny little talisman; it will speak to me
quite as intelligibly and distinctly as its owner in a _silent_ mood,
at any rate."--

Heigh-ho! How lonely I feel to-night! Every human soul is--must be--a
hermit, yet there might be something nearer companionship than I have
found for mine as yet. No one knows me. My real self--Ha! old fellow,
I like you better than I did; let us be good friends.

_Sept. 30th_. A golden sunrise. How much one loses under a false idea
of its being a luxury to sleep in the morning! Reclining under Farmer
Puddingstone's elm, and looking upon the glassy pond, in which the
glowing sky mirrored itself, my soul was fired with poetic
inspiration. On the blank page of a letter, I wrote:

"How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn,"--

and threw down my paper, being suddenly quenched by self-ridicule, as
I was debating whether to write "To Ethelind" over the top. Returning
that way after my ramble, I found the following conclusion pinned to
the tree by a jackknife:--

"How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn,--
When to call 'em to breakfast Josh toots on the