Lord of the land has lately passed by with a smile, and given
command that the pilgrims shall have a space of quiet. These birds,
these branching trees, have not yet lost the joy of His passing. There,
along the grassy tracks, His patient footsteps went, how short a time
ago! One does not hope that all the journey will be easy and
untroubled; there will be fresh burdens to be borne, dim valleys full
of sighs to creep through, dark waters to wade across; these feet will
stumble and bleed; these knees will be weary before the end; but to-day
there is no doubt about the pilgrimage, no question of the far-off
goal. The world is sad, perhaps, but sweet; sad as the homeless clouds
that drift endlessly across the sky from marge to marge; sweet as the
note of the hidden bird, that rises from moment to moment from the
copse beside me, again and yet again, telling of a little heart that is
content to wait, and not ill-pleased to be alone with its own soft
thoughts.

April 4, 1889.

Down in the valley which runs below the house is a mill. I passed it
to-day at dusk, and I thought I had never seen so characteristically
English a scene. The wheel was silent, and the big boarded walls,
dusted with flour, loomed up solemnly in the evening light. The full
leat dashed merrily through the sluice, making holiday, like a child
released from school. Behind was the stack-yard, for it is a farm as
well as a mill; and in the byre I heard the grunting of comfortable
pigs, and the soft pulling of the hay from the big racks by the
bullocks. The fowls were going to roost, fluttering up every now and
then into the big elder-bushes; while high above, in the apple-trees, I
saw great turkeys settled precariously for the night. The orchard was
silent, except for the murmur of the stream that bounds it. In the
mill-house itself lights gleamed in the windows, and I saw a pleasant
family-party gathered at their evening meal. The whole scene with its
background of sloping meadows and budding woods so tranquil and
contented--a scene which William Morris would have loved--for there is
a pleasant grace of antiquity about the old house, a sense of homely
and solid life, and of all the family associations that have gone to
the making of it, generation after generation leaving its mark in the
little alterations and additions that have met a need, or even
satisfied a pleasant fancy.

The miller is an elderly man now, fond of work, prosperous,
good-humour