earned that he was a bishop, and a brave and holy man whom
it was a great honour to meet, but, at the time, I only thought of how
kind he was to pare apples for me and to tell me tales. The king seldom
spoke more than one word at a time, but he was kind, too, in his way.
Once he said, "Sleepy?" to me. And, again, "Hungry?" He didn't look out
at the landscape at all, and neither did the bishop. But I ran from one
side to the other, and the last of the journey I was taken up between
the driver and the heavy man on the high seat.

Presently we were in a little town with cottages almost hidden among the
trees. A blue stream ran through green fields, and the water dashed over
a dam. I could hear the song of the mill and the ripping of the boards.

"We're here!" said the driver.

The heavy man lifted me down, and my young uncle came running out with
his arms open to receive me. "What a traveller!" he said, kissing me.

"It's been a tremendously long and interesting journey," I said.

"Yes," he answered. "Ten miles by rail and ten by stage. I suppose
you've had a great many adventures!"

"Oh, yes!" I cried, and ached to tell them, but feared this was not the
place. I saw my uncle respectfully helping the bishop to alight, and
heard him inquiring for his health, and the bishop answering in his
kind, deep voice, and saying I was indeed a good traveller and saw all
there was to see--and a little more. The king shook hands with me, and
this time said two words: "Good luck." Uncle had no idea who he was--no
one had seen him before. Uncle didn't quite like his looks. But I did.
He was uncommon; he was different. I thought of all those people in
the train who had been so alike. And then I remembered what unexpected
differences they had shown, and turned to smile at my uncle.

"I should say I have had adventures!" I cried.

"We'll get home to your aunt," he said, "and then we'll hear all about
them."

We crossed a bridge above the roaring mill-race, went up a lane, and
entered Arcadia. That was the way it seemed to me. It was really a
cottage above a stream, where youth and love dwelt, and honour and
hospitality, and the little house was to be exchanged for a greater one
where--though youth departed--love and honour and hospitality were still
to dwell.

"Travel's a great thing," said my uncle, as he helped me off with my
jacket.

"Yes," I answered, solemnly, "it is a great privilege to see the world."

I still am of that