see to the end of it, and knew before-hand
everything that would happen?"

"Life would be very dry,'' said the man.
"The things one knew so long aforehand
would seem stale when they came."

"Undoubtedly," rejoined Merton; "and
the use of curves, is just this: to prevent us
seeing the whole at once. As the path winds,
we know that something new will meet us at
the turning; and because what we see is
beautiful, we believe what is still hidden will
be the same. It is with a garden as with
life; the charm of both would be gone if we
could not expect and trust."

We passed through a wicket gate into the
orchard, one fence of which overhangs the
railway and the glinting line of the Thames
beyond. It was pleasant from the silence of
that rocky spot to look down on one of the
world's great thoroughfares in the valley.
Soon along the track of sinuous iron we heard
the distant clang of a train, the snort of the
rushing fire-steed. We saw the vivid blaze
on his path, and the train whirled by.
'What music in that crash!" said Merton,
as, with reverting eyes of fire, the phantom
plunged into the dusk." It always sounds to
me like a pæan for man's triumph over the
elements—a symbol of the time when each
passion, like fire, evil only because
ungoverned, shall own the yoke of a higher law, and
change from a foe into a servant. Nay, is not
this very power of steam preparing for that
better time—annihilating distance, uniting
nations, acquainting all sections of mankind
with each other? And by this knowledge—
this intercommunion," he continued, "the
cause of the World's Brotherhood is already
half won. For, whatever the private selfishness
of individuals, man loves his fellow in the
race."

He was dreaming again; but I felt raised
and touched by his words. Life seemed
nobler as he spoke. For observe, whether
his reasoning were true or not, his aspiration
was so; and it was that which bettered me.

By this time the moon was up; and as we
turned towards the house we saw the near
spire spiritualised in the soft rays. Merton
paused. I guessed why, and pressed his
hand. "She is with me yet," he said, after a
while. "I never pass a day unconscious of
her influence—without hoping to be worthier
of her—without a prayer that I may be made
liker unto those who are already in His
kingdom!"

Was that, too, a dream?

Here a quick, buoyant tread approached.
It was that of Susan. As she drew near,
however, she modulated her step, like one who
divined his thought, and we moved in silence to
the house. Arrived there, we found their evening
repast—prepared strawberries and clotted
cream, cream cheese, honey, the whitest of
bread, and cider which had a rarer zest than
even the Assmannhausen of my quondam
host. There was a charm in the scene which
no one could feel who did not feel too the
love that pervaded it. The mother of Lucy
gazed on Merton with a wistful tenderness
which showed that she had indeed found in
him a son. Indeed, it was her habit to call
him so.

"My son," said she, "works too hard. He
is always at his books and papers, and needs
change."

"What can there be happier in life than
work," he replied cheerfully, "if you love it,
and are of use in it?" Then he passed to the
last new poet, some of whose verses he
recited with infectious enthusiasm. His day's
work had been a critique of the poet, which
was also produced and read at the instigation
of Susan. The criticism was full of
appreciation, candid and decisive in its
objections, yet, withal, it read like the counsel
of a friend. There was a respect in it, too,
which Merton felt was due to the man,
however young, in whom he had recognised
genius.

"I should have been much more severe,"
said Susan, with an authoritative gesture of
her crochet-needle, and throwing out an
imperious little foot as if to repel all claims
on her lenity.

"Of course, women must put on severity,"
smiled Merton, "lest they should be thought
weak; but men, whom nature made strong,
Susy, can afford to be gentle."

She kissed him—this severe Susy—and we
all laughed. Then she extinguished the
lamp, and sang to us a ballad in the
moonlight, so plaintively, that it was clear some
tenderness yet lurked in her stern composition.
Candles were then brought, and we
parted for the night.

I was conducted to a charming little
bedroom, in the spotless and nicely-looped
drapery of which I saw evidences of Susy's hand,
I looked from the lattice into the peaceful
garden, and compared the condition of
Higginbotham with that of my friend.

"It is no mere metaphor," I mused, "to
say that the man of pure imagination is
richer than the worldling. We are happy, not
according to what we have, but according to
what we enjoy. What are halls to him around
whom friends do not gather? What,
domains, to him who has no eye for beauty?
What is life, to him who has no future? Men
of Merton's class are wealthy; and the world
itself would be sensibly poorer if deprived of
its dreamers."

On the eighth of August was published, price 5s. 6d.,
neatly bound in cloth,
THE ELEVENTH VOLUME
OF
HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
Containing the Numbers issued between the 3rd of
February and the 28th July, 1855. The Library Edition
of the previous Ten Volumes (bound in five) of HOUSEHOLD
WORDS, with an Index to the whole, price
£2 10s., may always be had of the booksellers.