We are off.  I have nothing to read, but then I want to think.  It is the ideal place in which to think, a railway carriage; the ideal place in which to be happy.  I wonder if I shall be in good form this week-end at cricket and tennis, and croquet and billiards, and all the other jolly games I mean to play.  Look at those children trying to play cricket in that dirty backyard.  Poor little beggars!  Fancy living in one of those horrible squalid houses.  But you cannot spoil to- day for me, little backyards.  On Tuesday perhaps, when I am coming again to the ugly town, your misery will make me miserable; I shall ask myself hopelessly what it all means; but just now I am too happy for pity.  After all, why should I assume that you envy me, you two children swinging on a gate and waving to me?  You are happy, aren’t you?  Of course; we are all happy to-day.  See, I am waving back to you.

My eyes wander round the carriage and rest on my bag.  Have I put everything in?  Of course I have.  Then why this uneasy feeling that I have left something very important out?  Well, I can soon settle the question.  Let’s start with to-night.  Evening clothes—­ they’re in, I know.  Shirts, collars ...

I go through the whole programme for the week-end, allotting myself in my mind suitable clothes for each occasion.  Yes; I seem to have brought everything that I can possibly want.  But what a very jolly programme I am drawing up for myself!  Will it really be as delightful as that?  Well, it was last time, and the time before; that is why I am so happy.

The train draws up at its only halt in the glow of a September mid-afternoon.  There is a little pleasant bustle; nice people get out and nice people meet them; everybody seems very cheery and contented.  Then we are off again ... and now the next station is mine.

We are there.  A porter takes my things with a kindly smile and a “Nice day.”  I see Brant outside with the wagonette, not the trap; then I am not the only guest coming by this train.  Who are the others, I wonder.  Anybody I know? ...  Why, yes, it’s Bob and Mrs. Bob, and—­hallo!—­Cynthia!  And isn’t that old Anderby?  How splendid!  I must get that shilling back from Bob that I lost to him at billiards last time.  And if Cynthia really thinks that she can play croquet ...

We greet each other happily and climb into the wagonette.  Never has the country looked so lovely.  “No; no rain at all,” says Brant, “and the glass is going up.”  The porter puts our luggage in the cart and comes round with a smile.  It is a rotten life being a porter, and I do so want everybody to enjoy this afternoon.  Besides, I haven’t any coppers.

I slip half a crown into his palm.  Now we are all very, very happy.

The Pond