ng home," he said,
"and I'm not going to let him die without a struggle. But you'll have
to make that Inner Self of his listen to reason. Now put your thinking
cap on, and good luck to you."

"I cannot understand him," I replied; "he was always inclined to
melancholy, but he was not morbid and listless as he now shows himself.
He seems sometimes pitiably weak and childish, whereas ordinarily he is
full of shrewd common sense."

"Of course he is," said the doctor, "and will be again. His Inner Self
is sick just now, consequent upon his long seclusion from friends and
home associations. It needs to be roused. If you can once make him
_want_ to go home, his body will take him there hard enough. I can't
do that: you must. Can't you tell him you have got to go back?"

I had thought of that. I had left my work at the busiest season of the
year, and, after all, it was my living. And there was Mother Hubbard,
who had learned to lean upon me, and had yielded me so willingly to the
more pressing duty. I owed something to her. As I thought upon these
things a feeling of homesickness stole over me, and I went in and sat
at the squire's feet.

It was falling dusk, and the cool breath of evening fanned our cheeks
as we sat by the open window and watched the lights twinkling in the
celestial dome, and the mountains growing more black and mysterious
with the advancing night.

"It is very lovely," murmured the squire.

"Yes," I said, "it is. But close your eyes and I will paint you a more
attractive picture than this. You will not interrupt me, will you? and
I will try to tell you what I saw not long ago, and what I am aching to
see again."

"No, my child," he replied, pressing my hand fondly "I will be quite
still and you shall paint your picture on my brain."

I hesitated a moment, and I think a wordless, formless prayer for help
ascended to heaven. I endeavoured to visualise the scene in its
fairest colours, and trembled lest my effort should be in vain. I
closed my own eyes, too, for I feared distraction. Then I began:

"I am standing in a country lane, with ragged hedges on either hand.
The hedges are brightly green, for they have been newly washed with the
warm rain of summer, and they sparkle like gems in the bright sunshine
of a glorious morning. There is a bank of grass, rank, luxurious
grass, on one side of the roadway, and I clamber up to secure a wider
view of the bounties nature has provided.