—­in that modest dwelling we were just looking at, not glorious, yet not unlovely in the youth of its drab and mahogany,—­full of great and little boys’ playthings from top to bottom,—­in all these summer or winter nests he was always at home and always welcome.

This long articulated sigh of reminiscences,—­this calenture which shows me the maple-shadowed plains of Berkshire and the mountain-circled green of Grafton beneath the salt waves that come feeling their way along the wall at my feet, restless and soft-touching as blind men’s busy fingers,—­is for that friend of mine who looks into the waters of the Patapsco and sees beneath them the same visions that paint themselves for me in the green depths of the Charles.

——­Did I talk all this off to the schoolmistress?—­Why, no,—­of course not.  I have been talking with you, the reader, for the last ten minutes.  You don’t think I should expect any woman to listen to such a sentence as that long one, without giving her a chance to put in a word?

——­What did I say to the schoolmistress?—­Permit me one moment.  I don’t doubt your delicacy and good-breeding; but in this particular case, as I was allowed the privilege of walking alone with a very interesting young woman, you must allow me to remark, in the classic version of a familiar phrase, used by our Master Benjamin Franklin, it is nullum tui negotii.

When the schoolmistress and I reached the school-room door, the damask roses I spoke of were so much heightened in color by exercise that I felt sure it would be useful to her to take a stroll like this every morning, and made up my mind I would ask her to let me join her again.

EXTRACT FROM MY PRIVATE JOURNAL.

(To be burned unread.)

I am afraid I have been a fool; for I have told as much of myself to this young person as if she were of that ripe and discreet age which invites confidence and expansive utterance.  I have been low-spirited and listless, lately,—­it is coffee, I think,—­(I observe that which is bought ready-ground never affects the head,)—­and I notice that I tell my secrets too easily when I am downhearted.

There are inscriptions on our hearts, which, like that on Dighton Rock, are never to be seen except at dead-low tide.

There is a woman’s footstep on the sand at the side of my deepest ocean-buried inscription!

——­Oh, no, no, no! a thousand times, no!—­Yet what is this which has been shaping itself in my soul?—­Is it a thought?—­is it a dream?—­is it a passion?—­Then I know what comes next.