As I write at my ease I see the velvety grass green on the rich pasture; the tall spires of the chestnut perch, and poise, and sway in the sun; a thrush sings hidden in the orchard; it is all caressingly, enchantingly beautiful, and I am well content to be alive.  Looking backwards, I discern that I have had my share, and more than my share, of good things.  But they are over; they are mine no longer.  And even as I think the thought, the old church clock across the fields tells out another hour that is fallen softly into the glimmering past.  If I could discern any strength or patience won from hours of pain and sorrow it would be easier; but the memory of pain makes me dread pain the more, the thought of past sorrow makes future sorrow still more black.  I would rather have strength than tranquillity, when all is done; but life has rather taught me my weakness, and struck the garland out of my reluctant hand.

To-day I have been riding quietly among fields deep with buttercups and fringed by clear, slow streams.  The trees are in full spring leaf, only the oaks and walnuts a little belated, unfurling their rusty-red fronds.  A waft of rich scent comes from a hawthorn hedge where a hidden cuckoo flutes, or just where the lane turns by the old water-mill, which throbs and grumbles with the moving gear, a great lilac-bush leans out of a garden and fills the air with perfume.  Yet, as I go, I am filled with a heavy anxiety, which plays with my sick heart as a cat plays with a mouse, letting it run a little in the sun, and then pouncing upon it in terror and dismay.  The beautiful sounds and sights round me—­the sight of the quiet, leisurely people I meet—­ought, one would think, to soothe and calm the unquiet heart.  But they do not; they rather seem to mock and flout me with a savage insolence of careless welfare.  My thoughts go back, I do not know why, to an old house where I spent many happy days, now in the hands of strangers.  I remember sitting, one of a silent and happy party, on a terrace in the dusk of a warm summer night, and how one of those present called to the owls that were hooting in the hanging wood above the house, so that they drew near in answer to the call, flying noiselessly, and suddenly uttering their plaintive notes from the heart of the great chestnut on the lawn.  Below I can see the dewy glimmering fields, the lights of the little port, the pale sea-line.  It seems now all impossibly beautiful and tranquil; but I know that even then it was often marred by disappointments, and troubles, and fears.  Little anxieties that have all melted softly into the past, that were easily enough borne, when it came to the point, yet, looming up as they did in the future, filled the days with the shadow of fear.  That is the phantom that one ought to lay, if it can be laid.  And is there hidden somewhere any well of healing, any pure source of strength and refreshment, from which we can drink and be calm and brave?  That is a question which