e growth of the meek and loving spirit.--Ever yours,

T. B.

I don't know what has happened to your letters. Perhaps you have not
been able to write? I go back to work to-morrow.

UPTON,
May 2, 1904.

MY DEAR HERBERT,--My holidays are over, and I am back at work again. I
have got your delightful letter; it was silly to be anxious. . . .

To-day I was bicycling; I was horribly preoccupied, as, alas, I often
am, with my own plans and thoughts. I was worrying myself about my
work, fretting about the thousand little problems that beset a
schoolmaster, trying to think out a chapter of a book which I am
endeavouring to write, my mind beating and throbbing like a feverish
pulse. I kept telling myself that the copses were beautiful, that the
flowers were enchanting, that the long line of distant hills seen
across the wooded valleys and the purple plain were ravishingly
tranquil and serene; but it was of no use; my mind ran like a
mill-race, a stream of thoughts jostling and hurrying on, in spite of
my efforts to shut the sluice.

Suddenly I turned a corner by a little wood, and found myself looking
over into the garden of a small, picturesque cottage, which has been
smartened up lately, and has become, I suppose, the country retreat of
some well-to-do people. It was a pretty garden; a gentle slope of
grass, borders full of flowers, and an orchard behind, whitening into
bloom, with a little pool in the shady heart of it. On the lawn were
three people, obviously and delightfully idle; an elderly man sate in a
chair, smiling, smoking, reading a paper. The other two, a younger man
and a young woman, were walking side by side, their heads close
together, laughing quietly at some gentle jest. A perambulator stood by
the porch. Both the men looked like prosperous professional people,
clean-shaven, healthy, and contented. I inferred, for no particular
reason, that the young pair were man and wife, lately married, and that
the elder man was the father-in-law. I had this passing glimpse, no
more, of an interior; and then I was riding among the spring woods
again.

Of course it was only an impression, but this happy, sunshiny scene, so
suddenly opened to my gaze, so suddenly closed again, was like a
parable. I felt as if I should have liked to stop, to take off my hat,
and thank my unknown friends for making so simple, pleasant, and sweet
a picture. I dare say they were as preoccupied in professional matters,
as careful