See how friendly together are the fire and the shaded lamp; both have their part alike in the illumining and warming of the room.  As the fire purrs and softly crackles, so does my lamp at intervals utter a little gurgling sound when the oil flows to the wick, and custom has made this a pleasure to me.  Another sound, blending with both, is the gentle ticking of the clock.  I could not endure one of those bustling little clocks which tick like a fever pulse, and are only fit for a stockbroker’s office; mine hums very slowly, as though it savoured the minutes no less than I do; and when it strikes, the little voice is silver-sweet, telling me without sadness that another hour of life is reckoned, another of the priceless hours—­

   “Quae nobis pereunt et imputantur.”

After extinguishing the lamp, and when I have reached the door, I always turn to look back; my room is so cosily alluring in the light of the last gleeds, that I do not easily move away.  The warm glow is reflected on shining wood, on my chair, my writing-table, on the bookcases, and from the gilt title of some stately volume; it illumes this picture, it half disperses the gloom on that.  I could imagine that, as in a fairy tale, the books do but await my departure to begin talking among themselves.  A little tongue of flame shoots up from a dying ember; shadows shift upon the ceiling and the walls.  With a sigh of utter contentment, I go forth, and shut the door softly.

II.

I came home this afternoon just at twilight, and, feeling tired after my walk, a little cold too, I first crouched before the fire, then let myself drop lazily upon the hearthrug.  I had a book in my hand, and began to read it by the firelight.  Rising in a few minutes, I found the open page still legible by the pale glimmer of day.  This sudden change of illumination had an odd effect upon me; it was so unexpected, for I had forgotten that dark had not yet fallen.  And I saw in the queer little experience an intellectual symbol.  The book was verse.  Might not the warm rays from the fire exhibit the page as it appears to an imaginative and kindred mind, whilst that cold, dull light from the window showed it as it is beheld by eyes to which poetry has but a poor, literal meaning, or none at all?

III.

It is a pleasant thing enough to be able to spend a little money without fear when the desire for some indulgence is strong upon one; but how much pleasanter the ability to give money away!  Greatly as I relish the comforts of my wonderful new life, no joy it has brought me equals that of coming in aid to another’s necessity.  The man for ever pinched in circumstances can live only for himself.  It is all very well to talk about doing moral good; in practice, there is little scope or hope for anything of that kind in a state of material hardship.