perplexity--no other feeling. And yet, if he could not have them down
there, how could he wait the two whole months till next term began! So
went his thoughts, round and round, while the horses jogged, dragging
him further and further from her.

It was better in the train; the distraction of all the strange crowd of
foreigners, the interest of new faces and new country; and then sleep--a
long night of it, snoozed up in his corner, thoroughly fagged out. And
next day more new country, more new faces; and slowly, his mood changing
from ache and bewilderment to a sense of something promised, delightful
to look forward to. Then Calais at last, and a night-crossing in a wet
little steamer, a summer gale blowing spray in his face, waves leaping
white in a black sea, and the wild sound of the wind. On again to
London, the early drive across the town, still sleepy in August haze; an
English breakfast--porridge, chops, marmalade. And, at last, the train
for home. At all events he could write to her, and tearing a page out of
his little sketch-book, he began:

"I am writing in the train, so please forgive this joggly writing--"

Then he did not know how to go on, for all that he wanted to say was
such as he had never even dreamed of writing--things about his feelings
which would look horrible in words; besides, he must not put anything
that might not be read, by anyone, so what was there to say?

"It has been such a long journey," he wrote at last, "away from the
Tyrol;" (he did not dare even to put "from you,") "I thought it would
never end. But at last it has--very nearly. I have thought a great deal
about the Tyrol. It was a lovely time--the loveliest time I have ever
had. And now it's over, I try to console myself by thinking of the
future, but not the immediate future--THAT is not very enjoyable. I
wonder how the mountains are looking to-day. Please give my love
to them, especially the lion ones that come and lie out in the
moonlight--you will not recognize them from this"--then followed a
sketch. "And this is the church we went to, with someone kneeling.
And this is meant for the 'English Grundys,' looking at someone who
is coming in very late with an alpenstock--only, I am better at the
'English Grundys' than at the person with the alpenstock. I wish I were
the 'English Grundys' now, still in the Tyrol. I hope I shall get a
letter from you soon; and that it will say you are getting ready to come
back. My guardia