say to it.  A small roll of manuscript in his hand led him soon to confess that a new story was already begun; but this communication was made in the utmost confidence, as if to account for any otherwise unexplainable absences, physically or mentally, from our society, which might occur.  But there were no gaps during that autumn afternoon of return to Gad’s Hill.  He told us how summer had brought him no vacation this year, and only two days of recreation.  One of those, he said, was spent with his family at “Rosherville Gardens,” “the place,” as a huge advertisement informed us, “to spend a happy day.”  His curiosity with regard to all entertainments for the people, he said to us, carried him thither, and he seemed to have been amused and rewarded by his visit.  The previous Sunday had found him in London; he was anxious to reach Gad’s Hill before the afternoon, but in order to accomplish this he must walk nine miles to a way station, which he did.  Coming to the little village, he inquired where the station was, and, being shown in the wrong direction, walked calmly down a narrow road which did not lead there at all.  “On I went,” he said, “in the perfect sunshine, over yellow leaves, without even a wandering breeze to break the silence, when suddenly I came upon three or four antique wooden houses standing under trees on the borders of a lovely stream, and, a little farther, upon an ancient doorway to a grand hall, perhaps the home of some bishop of the olden time.  The road came to an end there, and I was obliged to retrace my steps; but anything more entirely peaceful and beautiful in its aspect on that autumnal day than this retreat, forgotten by the world, I almost never saw.”  He was eager, too, to describe for our entertainment one of the yearly cricket-matches among the villagers at Gad’s Hill which had just come off.  Some of the toasts at the supper afterward were as old as the time of Queen Anne.  For instance,—­

    “More pigs,
    Fewer parsons”;

delivered with all seriousness; a later one was, “May the walls of old England never be covered with French polish!”

Once more we recall a morning at Gad’s Hill, a soft white haze over everything, and the yellow sun burning through.  The birds were singing, and beauty and calm pervaded the whole scene.  We strayed through Cobham Park and saw the lovely vistas through the autumnal haze; once more we reclined in the cool chalet in the afternoon, and watched the vessels going and coming upon the ever-moving river.  Suddenly all has vanished; and now, neither spring nor autumn, nor flowers nor birds, nor dawn nor sunset, nor the ever-moving river, can be the same to any of us again.  We have all drifted down upon the river of Time, and one has already sailed out into the illimitable ocean.

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