his keeping his
promise. I shall wait for him until to-morrow evening; but I almost
fear a letter will come instead, in which he will declare nocturnal
pedestrian excursions with an old friend to be incompatible with the
duties of a nurse._

"_I'll now close this letter, dearest. It's just the hour when I like
best to wander alone through a strange town. Evening has closed in, but
the inhabitants, to save oil and candles, prefer to sit outside the
doors a little longer and watch the last rays of light as they fade
away. The school children, too, their tasks all completed, play merrily
in the open air, while the mother brings the youngest, clad in its
night gown, out to the father who is sitting on a bench; taking the
little thing in his lap he shows it the moon, the high church tower,
and the stork's nest on the town hall, delighted to see it listen and
open its eyes. Some day this gazing wondering child will become a
stern, practical man, eager in the race for gold, thinking little of
fairy tales, except on Sunday mornings, when they will perhaps
sometimes recur to his memory. But I believe that many will carry a
breath of childhood into old age, and this is far more likely to be the
case in villages than in large towns away from the accustomed
surroundings and amid strange scenes. I've often noticed how, as one's
memory of home grows fainter, we become more contented in strange
places and in a frequent change of abode. For one is oftentimes
completely overwhelmed by the mystery of existence, as, on a summer
evening we look with earnestness into the blue ether and find our gaze
rivited by the first twinkle of a star; in our absorption we may become
almost incredulous as to the existence of our own homes. And sometimes
when far away from those who are dear to us, though still surrounded by
a human crowd, one feels that there is no tie to bind him to any place
but that where at evening the fire is kindled upon his own hearthstone,
and where, after the labors and toils of the day, he can rest in the
sacred atmosphere of peace and perfect love. I'm often obliged to pause
and draw back when I pass a bright window, behind which a group of
people are sitting around a smoking dish, lest I should enter unbidden,
and say: 'Good evening! Don't you know me? I'm your brother!'--Oh!
dearest, those are poor fools, who say to themselves and others, 'we
are strangers in the world.' Have we sprung from the lap of our mother
earth and