e pool of water at the bottom of a secret valley, reflecting the
leafless bushes that fringe it, catches the sunset gleam that rises in
the west; and then range after range of wolds, with pale-green
pastures, dark copses, fawn-coloured ploughland, here and there an
emerald patch of young wheat. The air is fresh, soft and fragrant,
laden with rain; the earth smells sweet; and the wild woodland scent
comes blowing to me out of the heart of the spinney. In front of me
glimmer the rough wheel-tracks of a grassy road that leads out on to
the heath, and two obscure figures move slowly nearer among the tufted
gorse. They seem to me, those two figures, charged with a grave
significance, as though they came to bear me tidings, messengers bidden
to seek and find me, like the men who visited Abraham at the close of
the day.

As I linger, the day grows darker, the colour fading from leaf and
blade; bright points of light flash out among the dark ridges from
secluded farms, where the evening lamp is lit.

Sometimes on days like this, when the moisture hangs upon the hedges,
when the streams talk hoarsely to themselves in grassy channels, when
the road is full of pools, one is weary, unstrung and dissatisfied,
faint of purpose, tired of labour, desiring neither activity nor rest;
the soul sits brooding, like the black crows that I see in the leafless
wood beneath me, perched silent and draggled on the tree-tops, just
waiting for the sun and the dry keen airs to return; but to-day it is
not so; I am full of a quiet hope, an acquiescent tranquillity. My
heart talks gently to itself, as to an unseen friend, telling its
designs, its wishes, its activities. I think of those I hold dear, all
the world over; I am glad that they are alive, and believe that they
think of me. All the air seems full of messages, thoughts and
confidences and welcomes passing to and fro, binding souls to each
other, and all to God. There seems to be nothing that one needs to do
to-day except to live one's daily life; to be kind and joyful. To-day
the road of pilgrimage lies very straight and clear between its fences,
in an open ground, with neither valley nor hill, no by-path, no
turning. One can even see the gables and chimneys of some grave house
of welcome, "a roof for when the dark hours begin," full of pious
company and smiling maidens. And not, it seems, a false security; one
is not elated, confident, strong; one knows one's weakness; but I think
that the