shed Colonials and others of British
race from all regions of the earth, who annually visit these shores on
business or for pleasure or some other object, how many there must be
who come with some such memory or dream or aspiration in their hearts!
A greater number probably than we imagine. For most of them there is
doubtless disappointment and disillusion: it is a matter of the heart,
a sentiment about which some are not given to speak. He too, my
fellow-passenger, would no doubt have held his peace had his dream not
met with so perfect a fulfilment. As it was he had to tell his joy to
some one, though it were to a stranger.

Chapter Fifteen: Summer Days on the Otter

The most characteristic district of South Devon, the greenest, most
luxuriant in its vegetation, and perhaps the hottest in England, is
that bit of country between the Exe and the Axe which is watered by
the Clyst, the Otter, and the Sid. In any one of a dozen villages found
beside these pretty little rivers a man might spend a month, a year,
a lifetime, very agreeably, ceasing not to congratulate himself on the
good fortune which first led him into such a garden. Yet after a week
or two in this luxurious land I began to be dissatisfied with my
surroundings. It was June; the weather was exceptionally dry and sultry.
Vague thoughts, or "visitings" of mountains and moors and coasts would
intrude to make the confinement of deep lanes seem increasingly irksome.
Each day I wandered miles in some new direction, never knowing whither
the devious path would lead me, never inquiring of any person, nor
consulting map or guide, since to do that is to deprive oneself of the
pleasure of discovery; always with a secret wish to find some exit as
it were--some place beyond the everlasting wall of high hedges and green
trees, where there would be a wide horizon and wind blowing unobstructed
over leagues of open country to bring me back the sense of lost liberty.
I found only fresh woods and pastures new that were like the old; other
lanes leading to other farm-houses, each in its familiar pretty setting
of orchard and garden; and, finally, other ancient villages, each with
its ivy-grown grey church tower looking down on a green graveyard and
scattered cottages, mostly mud-built and thatched with straw. Finding no
outlook on any side I went back to the streams, oftenest to the Otter,
where, lying by the hour on the bank, I watched the speckled trout
below me and t