these for a man about to be married, especially when they
float into his brain at night like ominous clouds into a summer sky, and
he is going to be married to-morrow. There is no mistake about it--the
wedding, I mean. To be plain and matter-of-fact, why there stand the
presents, or some of them, and very handsome presents they are, ranged
in solemn rows upon the long table. It is a remarkable thing to observe
when one is about to make a really satisfactory marriage how scores of
unsuspected or forgotten friends crop up and send little tokens of their
esteem. It was very different when I married my first wife, I remember,
but then that match was not satisfactory--just a love-match, no more.

There they stand in solemn rows, as I have said, and inspire me with
beautiful thoughts about the innate kindness of human nature, especially
the human nature of our distant cousins. It is possible to grow almost
poetical over a silver teapot when one is going to be married to-morrow.
On how many future mornings shall I be confronted with that tea-pot?
Probably for all my life; and on the other side of the teapot will be
the cream jug, and the electro-plated urn will hiss away behind them
both. Also the chased sugar basin will be in front, full of sugar, and
behind everything will be my second wife.

"My dear," she will say, "will you have another cup of tea?" and
probably I shall have another cup.

Well, it is very curious to notice what ideas will come into a man's
head sometimes. Sometimes something waves a magic wand over his
being, and from the recesses of his soul dim things arise and walk. At
unexpected moments they come, and he grows aware of the issues of
his mysterious life, and his heart shakes and shivers like a
lightning-shattered tree. In that drear light all earthly things seem
far, and all unseen things draw near and take shape and awe him, and he
knows not what is true and what is false, neither can he trace the edge
that marks off the Spirit from the Life. Then it is that the footsteps
echo, and the ghostly footprints will not be stamped out.

Pretty thoughts again! and how persistently they come! It is one o'clock
and I will go to bed. The rain is falling in sheets outside. I can hear
it lashing against the window panes, and the wind wails through the tall
wet elms at the end of the garden. I could tell the voice of those elms
anywhere; I know it as well as the voice of a friend. What a night it
is; we sometime