ind stray back to that night of the past years,
the rain beat sharply on the window-panes, and though there were no trees
in the grey suburban street, he heard distinctly the crash of boughs. He
wandered vaguely from thought to thought, groping indistinctly amongst
memories, like a man trying to cross from door to door in a darkened
unfamiliar room. But, no doubt, if he were to look out, by some magic the
whole scene would be displayed before him. He would not see the curve of
monotonous two-storied houses, with here and there a white blind, a patch
of light, and shadows appearing and vanishing, not the rain plashing in
the muddy road, not the amber of the gas-lamp opposite, but the wild
moonlight poured on the dearly loved country; far away the dim circle of
the hills and woods, and beneath him the tossing trees about the lawn,
and the wood heaving under the fury of the wind.

He smiled to himself, amidst his lazy meditations, to think how real it
seemed, and yet it was all far away, the scenery of an old play long
ended and forgotten. It was strange that after all these years of trouble
and work and change he should be in any sense the same person as that
little boy peeping out, half frightened, from the rectory window. It was
as if looking in the glass one should see a stranger, and yet know that
the image was a true reflection.

The memory of the old home recalled his father and mother to him, and he
wondered whether his mother would come if he were to cry out suddenly.
One night, on just such a night as this, when a great storm blew from the
mountain, a tree had fallen with a crash and a bough had struck the roof,
and he awoke in a fright, calling for his mother. She had come and had
comforted him, soothing him to sleep, and now he shut his eyes, seeing
her face shining in the uncertain flickering candle light, as she bent
over his bed. He could not think she had died; the memory was but a part
of the evil dreams that had come afterwards.

He said to himself that he had fallen asleep and dreamed sorrow and
agony, and he wished to forget all the things of trouble. He would return
to happy days, to the beloved land, to the dear and friendly paths across
the fields. There was the paper, white before him, and when he chose to
stir, he would have the pleasure of reading his work. He could not quite
recollect what he had been about, but he was somehow conscious that the
had been successful and had brought some long labo