, as I rode slowly away, with a shadow on my spirit. I felt I
had somehow seen a type, a mystery. These incidents do not befall one
by chance, and I was sure, in some remote way, that I had looked, as it
were, for a moment into a dark avenue of the soul; that I was bidden to
think, to ponder. These tokens of violence and death, the blood
outpoured, in witness of pain, in the heart of the quiet sanctuary,
before the very altar of the God of peace and love. What is it that we
do that is like that? What is it that _I_ do? I will not tell you how
the message shaped itself for me; perhaps you can guess; but it came,
it formed itself out of the dark, and in that silent hour a voice
called sharply in my spirit.

But I must not end thus. I came home; I told my tale; I found my friend
returned. He nodded gravely and wonderingly, and I think he half
understood. But his wife was full of curiosity. She made me tell and
retell the incident. "Was there no one you could ask?" she said; "I
would not have rested till I had solved it." She even bade me tell her
the name of the place, but I refused. "Do you mean to say you don't
WANT to know?" she said. "No," I said; "I had rather not know." To
which, rather petulantly, she said, "Oh, you MEN!" That evening a
neighbouring parson, his wife, and daughter, came to dine. I was bidden
to tell my story again, and the same scene was re-enacted. "Was there
no one you could find to ask?" said the girl. I laughed and said, "I
daresay I could have found some one, but I did not want to know. I had
rather have my little mystery," I added; and then we men interchanged a
nod, while the women looked sharply at each other. "Is it not quite
incredible?" my friend's wife said. And the daughter added, "I, for
one, will not rest till I have discovered."

That, I suppose, is the difference between the masculine and the
feminine mind. You will understand me; but read the story to your wife
and daughters, and they will say, "Was there no one he could have
asked?" and "I would not rest till I had discovered." Meanwhile I only
hope that my maiden's efforts will prove unavailing.--Ever yours,

T. B.

GREENHOWE,
SEDBERGH,
Aug. 21, 1904.

MY DEAR HERBERT,--I suppose I am very early Victorian in my tastes; but
I have just been reading Jane Eyre again with intense satisfaction. (I
will tell you presently WHY I have been reading it.) I read it first as
a boy at Eton, and I must have read it twenty tim