aments, was a treasure to her note-book. We were very happy!"

I doubt, indeed, whether her companion has experienced greater
enjoyment during any of his later and more luxurious visits to the
same spots; the _first_ sight of a foreign country must remain a
unique sensation.

It was not the intrinsic value of Julie's gifts to us that made them
so precious, but the wide-hearted spirit which always prompted them.
Out of a moderate income she could only afford to be generous from her
constant habit of thinking first for others, and denying herself. It
made little difference whether the gift was elevenpence
three-farthings' worth of modern Japanese pottery, which she seized
upon as just the right shape and colour to fit some niche on one of
our shelves, or a copy of the _edition de luxe_ of "Evangeline," with
Frank Dicksee's magnificent illustrations, which she ordered one day
to be included in the parcel of a sister, who had been judiciously
laying out a small sum on the purchase of cheap editions of standard
works, not daring to look into the tempting volume for fear of
coveting it. When the carrier brought home the unexpectedly large
parcel that night, it was difficult to say whether the receiver or the
giver was the happier.

My turn came once to be taken by Julie to the sea for rest (June
1874), and then one of the chief enjoyments lay in the unwonted luxury
of being allowed to choose my own route. Freedom of choice to a
wearied mind is quite as refreshing as ozone to an exhausted body.
Julie had none of the petty tyranny about her which often mars the
generosity of otherwise liberal souls, who insist on giving what they
wish rather than what the receiver wants.

I was told to take out Bradshaw's map, and go exactly where I desired,
and, oh! how we pored over the various railway lines, but finally
chose Dartmouth for a destination, as being old in itself, and new to
us, and really a "long way off." We were neither of us disappointed;
we lived on the quay, and watched the natives living in boats on the
harbour, as is their wont; and we drove about the Devon lanes, all
nodding with foxgloves, to see the churches with finely-carved screens
that abound in the neighbourhood, our driver being a more than
middle-aged woman, with shoes down at heel, and a hat on her head.
She was always attended by a black retriever, whom she called "Naro,"
and whom Julie sketched. I am afraid, as years went on, I became
unscrupulous abou