upon me, the unpractical spirit that takes
no thought for anything, but simply wanders along enjoying its own
emotions. It was a quiet, sad morning, and there was a thick mist. By
the time I was in the little train on the light railway that passed
through the village nearest my old home, I had got over my first
enthusiasm, and had entered the stage of critically examining the
changes that had been made in the last ten years. It was so misty that
I could see nothing of the familiar country from the carriage windows,
only the ghosts of pines in the front row of the forests; but the
railway itself was a new departure, unknown in our day, when we used
to drive over ten miles of deep, sandy forest roads to and from the
station, and although most people would have called it an evident and
great improvement, it was an innovation due, no doubt, to the zeal and
energy of the reigning cousin; and who was he, thought I, that he should
require more conveniences than my father had found needful? It was no
use my telling myself that in my father's time the era of light railways
had not dawned, and that if it had, we should have done our utmost to
secure one; the thought of my cousin, stepping into my shoes, and then
altering them, was odious to me. By the time I was walking up the hill
from the station I had got over this feeling too, and had entered a
third stage of wondering uneasily what in the world I should do next.
Where was the intrepid courage with which I had started? At the top of
the first hill I sat down to consider this question in detail, for I was
very near the house now, and felt I wanted time. Where, indeed, was the
courage and joy of the morning? It had vanished so completely that I
could only suppose that it must be lunch time, the observations of years
having led to the discovery that the higher sentiments and virtues fly
affrighted on the approach of lunch, and none fly quicker than courage.
So I ate the lunch I had brought with me, hoping that it was what I
wanted; but it was chilly, made up of sandwiches and pears, and it had
to be eaten under a tree at the edge of a field; and it was November,
and the mist was thicker than ever and very wet--the grass was wet
with it, the gaunt tree was wet with it, I was wet with it, and the
sandwiches were wet with it. Nobody's spirits can keep up under such
conditions; and as I ate the soaked sandwiches, I deplored the headlong
courage more with each mouthful that had torn m