int of my life; the way which has led me downwards, deepening
and darkening, seems to have reached its lowest point, and to be
ascending from the gloom; and all from the words of a simple, frail old
man, sitting among his books in a panelled parlour, in a soft, summer
afternoon.

July 10, 1890.

I have been sitting out, this hot, still afternoon, upon the lawn,
under the shade of an old lime-tree, with its sweet scent coming and
going in wafts, with the ceaseless murmur of the bees all about it; but
for that slumberous sound, the place was utterly still; the sun lay
warm on the old house, on the box hedges of the garden, on the rich
foliage of the orchard. I have been lost in a strange dream of peace
and thankfulness, only wishing the sweet hours could stay their course,
and abide with me thus for ever. Part of the time Maggie sate with me,
reading. We were both silent, but glad to be together; every now and
then she looked up and smiled at me. I was not even visited by the
sense that used to haunt me, that I must bestir myself, do something,
think of something. It is not that I am less active than formerly; it
is the reverse. I do a number of little things here, trifling things
they would seem, not worth mentioning, mostly connected with the
village or the parish. My writing has retired far into the past, like a
sort of dream. I never even plan to begin again. I teach a little, not
Maggie only, but some boys and girls of the place, who have left
school, but are glad to be taught in the evenings. I have plenty of
good easy friends here, and have the blessed sense of feeling myself
wanted. Best of all, a sense of poisonous hurry seems to have gone out
of my life. In the old days I was always stretching on to something,
the end of my book, the next book--never content with the present,
always hoping that the future would bring me the satisfaction I seemed
to miss. I did not always know it at the time, for I was often happy
when I was writing a book--but it was, at best, a rushing, tortured
sort of happiness. My great sorrow--what has that become to me? A
beautiful thing, full of patience and hope. What but that has taught me
to learn to live for the moment, to take the bitter experiences of life
as they come, not crushing out the sweetness and flinging the rind
aside, but soberly, desirously, only eager to get from the moment what
it is meant to bring. Even the very shrinking back from a bitter duty,
the indolent re