By the time I was in the little train on the light railway
that passed through the village nearest my old home, I had got
over my first enthusiasm, and had entered the stage of critically
examining the changes that had been made in the last ten years.
It was so misty that I could see nothing of the familiar country
from the carriage windows, only the ghosts of pines in the front
row of the forests; but the railway itself was a new departure,
unknown in our day, when we used to drive over ten miles of deep,
sandy forest roads to and from the station, and although most
people would have called it an evident and great improvement,
it was an innovation due, no doubt, to the zeal and energy
of the reigning cousin; and who was he, thought I, that he should
require more conveniences than my father had found needful?
It was no use my telling myself that in my father's time the era
of light railways had not dawned, and that if it had, we should
have done our utmost to secure one; the thought of my cousin,
stepping into my shoes, and then altering them, was odious to me.
By the time I was walking up the hill from the station I
had got over this feeling too, and had entered a third stage
of wondering uneasily what in the world I should do next.
Where was the intrepid courage with which I had started?
At the top of the first hill I sat down to consider this question
in detail, for I was very near the house now, and felt I wanted time.
Where, indeed, was the courage and joy of the morning?
It had vanished so completely that I could only suppose that it
must be lunch time, the observations of years having led to the
discovery that the higher sentiments and virtues fly affrighted
on the approach of lunch, and none fly quicker than courage.
So I ate the lunch I had brought with me, hoping that it was
what I wanted; but it was chilly, made up of sandwiches and pears,