lay his
outworn music by, though he does it in utter sadness of soul, only glad
if he can continue sorrowful.

XVI

I have been thinking all to-day, for no particular reason that I can
discover, of a house where I spent many of the happiest days of my
life. It belonged for some years to an old friend of mine a bachelor, a
professional man, who used to go there for his holidays, and delighted
to gather round him a few familiar friends. Year after year I used to
go there, sometimes twice in the year, for long periods together. The
house was in North Wales: it stood somewhat above the plain on a
terrace among woods, at the base of a long line of dark crags, which
showed their scarped fronts, with worn fantastic outlines, above the
trees that clustered at their feet and straggled high up among the
shoots of stone. The view from the house was of extraordinary beauty.
There was a flat rich plain below, dotted with clumps of trees; a
mountain rose at one side, a rocky ridge. Through the plain a slow
river broadened to the sea, and at the mouth stood a little town, the
smoke of which went up peacefully on still days. Across the sea,
shadowy headlands of remote bays stood out one after another to the
south. The house had a few sloping fields below it; a lawn embowered in
trees, and a pretty old walled garden, where the sun-warmed air was
redolent with the homely scent of old-fashioned herbs and flowers.
Several little steep paths meandered through the wood, crossing and
recrossing tiny leaping streams, and came out on a great tract of
tumbled moorland above, with huge broad-backed mountains couched about
it.

The house itself was full of low, pleasant rooms, looking out on to a
wide verandah. It was almost austerely furnished, and the life was
simple and serene. We used to go for vague walks on the moor or by the
sea, and sometimes took long driving and walking expeditions among the
hills. It was a rainy region, and we were often confined to the house,
except for a brisk walk in the soft rain. The climate never suited me;
I was always languid in body there, greedy of sleep and food. There was
no great brilliance of talk, only a quiet ease of communication such as
takes place among people of the same interests. I was ill there, more
than once, and often anxious and perplexed. And yet, for all that, my
memory persists in investing it all with a singular radiance, and tells
me over and over again that I was never so hap