ever seen him distinctly—­not even to this day, after I had my last view of him; but it seemed to me that the less I understood the more I was bound to him in the name of that doubt which is the inseparable part of our knowledge.  I did not know so much more about myself.  And then, I repeat, I was going home—­to that home distant enough for all its hearthstones to be like one hearthstone, by which the humblest of us has the right to sit.  We wander in our thousands over the face of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond the seas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to me that for each of us going home must be like going to render an account.  We return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends—­those whom we obey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the most free, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties,—­even those for whom home holds no dear face, no familiar voice,—­even they have to meet the spirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in its valleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees—­a mute friend, judge, and inspirer.  Say what you like, to get its joy, to breathe its peace, to face its truth, one must return with a clear conscience.  All this may seem to you sheer sentimentalism; and indeed very few of us have the will or the capacity to look consciously under the surface of familiar emotions.  There are the girls we love, the men we look up to, the tenderness, the friendships, the opportunities, the pleasures!  But the fact remains that you must touch your reward with clean hands, lest it turn to dead leaves, to thorns, in your grasp.  I think it is the lonely, without a fireside or an affection they may call their own, those who return not to a dwelling but to the land itself, to meet its disembodied, eternal, and unchangeable spirit—­it is those who understand best its severity, its saving power, the grace of its secular right to our fidelity, to our obedience.  Yes! few of us understand, but we all feel it though, and I say all without exception, because those who do not feel do not count.  Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.  I don’t know how much Jim understood; but I know he felt, he felt confusedly but powerfully, the demand of some such truth or some such illusion—­I don’t care how you call it, there is so little difference, and the difference means so little.  The thing is that in virtue of his feeling he mattered.  He would never go home now.  Not he.  Never.  Had he been capable of picturesque manifestations he would have shuddered at the thought and made you shudder too.  But he was not of that sort, though he was expressive enough in his way.  Before the idea of going home he would grow desperately stiff and immovable, with lowered chin and pouted lips, and with those candid