“I think, Adam,” said I, “I think it is going to be a fine day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good-by, Adam!” said I, and held out my hand.

“Good-by, sir.”  And, having shaken my hand, he turned and went back into the stable.

So I set off, walking beneath an avenue of trees looming up gigantic on either hand.  At the end was the lodge and, ere I opened the gates—­for John, the lodgekeeper, was not yet astir—­ere I opened the gates, I say, I paused for one last look at the house that had been all the home I had ever known since I could remember.  As I stood thus, with my eyes upon the indistinct mass, I presently distinguished a figure running towards me and, as he came up, recognized Adam.

“It ain’t much, sir, but it’s all I ’ave,” said he, and thrust a short, thick, well-smoked clay pipe into my hand—­a pipe that was fashioned to the shape of a negro’s head.  “It’s a good pipe, sir,” he went on, “a mortal good pipe, and as sweet as a nut!” saying which, he turned about and ran off, leaving me standing there with his parting gift in my hand.

And having put the pipe into an inner pocket, I opened the gate and started off at a good pace along the broad highway.

It was a bleak, desolate world that lay about me, a world of shadows and a white, low-lying mist that filled every hollow and swathed hedge and tree; a lowering earth and a frowning heaven infinitely depressing.  But the eastern sky was clear with an ever-growing brightness; hope lay there, so, as I walked, I kept my eyes towards the east.

Being come at last to that eminence which is called Shooter’s Hill, I sat down upon a bank beside the way and turned to look back upon the wonderful city.  And as I watched, the pearly east changed little by little, to a varying pink, which in turn slowly gave place to reds and yellows, until up came the sun in all his majesty, gilding vane and weathercock upon a hundred spires and steeples, and making a glory of the river.  Far away upon the white riband of road that led across Blackheath, a chaise was crawling, but save for that the world seemed deserted.

I sat thus a great while gazing upon the city and marvelling at the greatness of it.

“Truly,” said I to myself, “nowhere in the whole world is there such another city as London!” And presently I sighed and, rising, set my back to the city and went on down the hill.

Yes—­the sun was up at last, and at his advent the mists rolled up and vanished, the birds awoke in brake and thicket and, lifting their voices, sang together, a song of universal praise.  Bushes rustled, trees whispered, while from every leaf and twig, from every blade of grass, there hung a flashing jewel.

With the mists my doubts of the future vanished too, and I strode upon my way, a very god, king of my destiny, walking through a tribute world where feathered songsters carolled for me and blossoming flowers wafted sweet perfume upon my path.  So I went on gayly down the hill, rejoicing that I was alive.