are far preferable
to polite deceit. They must needs be rough and rude. If it were not for
its coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm.

I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sincerity
than does the smoothest surface.

* * * * *

Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that a
blind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for at every step he
is obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his ground before
he firmly plants his foot on the earth.

Is it not the same with me? Am I not obliged to be sure of the ground
before I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen.

Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbol of my life?

* * * * *

I have now been here between two and three years. I have formed a
resolve which it will be difficult to carry out. I shall go out into the
world once more. I must again behold the scenes of my past life. I have
tested myself severely.

May it not be a love of adventure, that genteel yet vulgar desire to
undertake what is unusual or fraught with peril? Or is it a morbid
desire to wander through the world after having died, as it were?

No; far from it. What can it be? An intense longing to roam again, if it
be only for a few days. I must kill the desire, lest it kill me.

Whence arises this sudden longing?

Every tool that I use while at work burns my hand.

I must go.

I shall obey the impulse, without worrying myself with speculations as
to its cause. I am subject to the rules of no order. My will is my only
law. I harm no one by obeying it. I feel myself free; the world has no
power over me.

I dreaded informing Walpurga of my intention. When I did so, her tone,
her words, her whole manner, and the fact that she for the first time
called me "child," made it seem as if her mother were still speaking
to me.

"Child," said she, "you're right! Go! It'll do you good. I believe that
you'll come back and will stay with us; but if you don't, and another
life opens up to you--your expiation has been a bitter one, far heavier
than your sin."

Uncle Peter was quite happy when he learned that we were to be gone
from one Sunday to the Sunday following. When I asked him whether he was
curious as to where we were going, he replied:--

"It's all one to me. I'd travel over the whole world with you, wherever
you'd care to go; and