sorely anxious, a group of slender,
whispering poplars by a mill; and under different, but equally
harassing, circumstances, the dear little Gothic church of a tiny town
of Western France.

The Gothic church on its rising ground above the high-pitched roofs,
and, in a measure, the church's white tame goat, which I found there one
morning under a lime tree. I had been overtaken by a sudden storm, the
rain-floods dashing from the gargoyles on to the rough ground of the
solitary, wooded mound. In the faint light the little church, with
sparse oak leaves and dock delicately carved on the granite capitals,
was wonderfully grave and gentle in its utter emptiness; and I did it
all possible honour. There is a low granite bench or sill round the
base of the beautiful sheaved columns; a broken, disused organ-loft of
coloured mediaeval thorn carving; and under two shapely little arches lie
a knight, unknown, and lady in high coif.... I knew it all by heart,
coming like that every day and sometimes twice a day; by heart, and, so
to speak, _with_ my heart. The sound of the spouting gargoyles ceased;
cocks began to crow; I went out, for the rain must have left off.... Not
yet; the skies were still dripping, and the plain below full of vapours.
And the tame white goat, the only living creature about the church, had
taken refuge under a cart stranded by a large lime tree.

I mention this particular visit to my friend the church of L----, in
order to explain the precise nature of our friendship; and to show, as I
think it does, that through that law of economy which should preside
over our pleasures and interests, such intimacy with a single object,
simple and unobtrusive, is worth the acquaintance with a hundred and one
magnificent and perfect things, if superficially seen and without loving
care.

A HOTEL SITTING-ROOM

I am calling this paper after a hotel sitting-room because some of one's
most recurrent and definite trains of thought are most hopelessly
obstinate about getting an intelligible name, so that I take advantage
of this one having been brought to a head in a real room of the kind.
The room was on a top floor in Florence; the Cupola and Campanile and
other towers in front of it above the plum-coloured roofs; and beyond,
the bluish mountains of Fiesole. Trams were puffing about in the square
below, and the church bells ringing, and the crowd streaming to the
promenade; but only the unchanging and significant lif