I

The open door.

I took the house of Brentwood on my return from India in 18—­, for the temporary accommodation of my family, until I could find a permanent home for them.  It had many advantages which made it peculiarly appropriate.  It was within reach of Edinburgh; and my boy Roland, whose education had been considerably neglected, could go in and out to school; which was thought to be better for him than either leaving home altogether or staying there always with a tutor.  The first of these expedients would have seemed preferable to me; the second commended itself to his mother.  The doctor, like a judicious man, took the midway between.  “Put him on his pony, and let him rile into the High School every morning; it will do him all the good in the world,” Dr. Simson said; “and when it is bad weather, there is the train.”  His mother accepted this solution of the difficulty more easily than I could have hoped; and our pale-faced boy, who had never known anything more invigorating than Simla, began to encounter the brisk breezes of the North in the subdued severity of the month of May.  Before the time of the vacation in July we had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to acquire something of the brown and ruddy complexion of his schoolfellows.  The English system did not commend itself to Scotland in these days.  There was no little Eton at Fettes; nor do I think, if there had been, that a genteel exotic of that class would have tempted either my wife or me.  The lad was doubly precious to us, being the only one left us of many; and he was fragile in body, we believed, and deeply sensitive in mind.  To keep him at home, and yet to send him to school,—­to combine the advantages of the two systems,—­seemed to be everything that could be desired.  The two girls also found at Brentwood everything they wanted.  They were near enough to Edinburgh to have masters and lessons as many as they required for completing that never-ending education which the young people seem to require nowadays.  Their mother married me when she was younger than Agatha; and I should like to see them improve upon their mother!  I myself was then no more than twenty-five,—­an age at which I see the young fellows now groping about them, with no notion what they are going to do with their lives.  However; I suppose every generation has a conceit of itself which elevates it, in its own opinion, above that which comes after it.

Brentwood stands on that fine and wealthy slope of country—­one of the richest in Scotland—­which lies between the Pentland Hills and the Firth.  In clear weather you could see the blue gleam—­like a bent bow, embracing the wealthy fields and scattered houses—­of the great estuary on one side of you, and on the other the blue heights, not gigantic like those we had been used to, but just high enough for all the glories of the atmosphere, the play of clouds, and sweet reflections, which give to a hilly