t, of
the withered potatoes, bringing the sense of knowing it all, turnings
of roads and of the land, so well. And similarly inside the castle,
where I lingered on the pretext of writing a note to those ladies. It
was all unchanged; the escutcheons in relief on the ceiling, the view of
cornfield and thin beech belts, and distant sea from the windows, the
lavender and _pot-pourri_ in the bowls, and almost the titles of the
books, seemed quietly, at the touch of reality, to open out in
remembrance. I did not stay till the return of the ladies, but went back
to the station, and waited on the bridge for my train, which was a good
half-hour late. I looked down from that bridge on the kind and gentle
country in the veiled sunshine. The hill to the back of the house where
I had lived, in the distance, the red roofs of the fishing villages, the
little spire of the smallest of them barely projecting, as it always
did, above the freshly reaped fields. And I felt, as I leaned against
the parapet watching for my train's smoke coming towards me, not the
loss, but rather the inestimable gain which a kindly past represents.
Years gone by? Nay, rather years which make endurable, which furnish and
warm the present, giving it sweetness and significance. How very poor
we must be in our early youth, with no possessions like these; and how
rich in our later life, with many years distilled into the essence of a
single to-day!

As I stood on the railway bridge thinking or feeling in this manner, I
heard wheels, and saw a pony-cart, with an elderly lady, and a younger
one driving her, coming towards me. It was the ladies who had been so
kind to me all those years back, returning to the little castle. I
turned my back, leaned on the parapet, and let them pass me, unnoticing.
I wanted to keep them also in that dim and dear kind past.

For we must be discreet as well as grateful-hearted if we would enjoy
the Past's full gifts....

The Past's gifts; and to these I would add, or among them rather I would
include, an item which I find a difficulty in naming properly, and
which, of course, I hesitate a little to speak about. I mean the gifts,
odd as it sounds, of Death. For Death, while in his main function the
cruel taker-away, the violent or stealthy robber, has also a less
important side to his character, and is a giver of gifts, if only we
know how to receive them. And he is this even apart from his power (for
which one might imagine that the