The day
grew darker as we wandered, and a pleasant plodding and clinking of
horses coming home made itself heard in the yard. Then he asked me to
enter the house. What was my surprise when he led me into a large hall,
with painted panels and a painted ceiling, occupying all the centre of
the house. He told me a little of the history of the place, of a visit
paid by Charles the First, and other simple traditions, showing me all
the time a quiet, serious kindness, which reminded one of the
entertainment given to the wayfarers of the Pilgrim's Progress.

Once more we went out on the little terrace and looked round; the night
began to fall, and lights began to twinkle in the house, while the fire
glowed and darted in the hall.

But what I cannot, I am afraid, impart to you is the strange
tranquillity that came softly down into my mind; everything took its
part in this atmosphere of peace. The overgrown terrace, the mellow
brickwork, the bare trees, the tall house, the gentle kindliness of my
host. And then I seemed so far away from the world; there was nothing
in sight but the fallows and the woods, rounded with mist; it seemed at
once the only place in the world, and yet out of it. The old house
stood patiently waiting, serving its quiet ends, growing in beauty
every year, seemingly so unconscious of its grace and charm, and yet,
as it were, glad to be loved. It seemed to give me just the calm, the
tenderness I wanted. To assure me that, whatever pain and humiliation
there were in the world, there was a strong and loving Heart behind. My
host said good-bye to me very kindly, begging me to come again and
bring any one to see the place. "We are very lonely here, and it does
us good to see a stranger."

I rode away, and stopped at a corner where a last view of the house was
possible; it stood regarding me, it seemed, mournfully, and yet with a
solemn welcome from its dark windows. And here was another beautiful
vignette; close to me, by a hedge, stood an old labourer, a fork in one
hand, the other shading his eyes, watching with simple intentness a
flight of wild-duck that was passing overhead, dipping to some
sequestered pool.

I rode away with a quiet hopefulness in my heart. I seemed like a dusty
and weary wayfarer, who has flung off his heated garments and plunged
into the clear waters of comfort; to have drawn near to the heart of
the world; to have had a sight, in the midst of things mutable and
disquieting, of th