overlooking what is not quite sea, yet more than river, is one of the
most restful spots I know. Of course the association with old Chaucer,
who speaks of Topsham sailors, helps my mood. I came home very tired;
but I am not yet decrepit, and for that I must be thankful.

The unspeakable blessedness of having a _home_! Much as my imagination
has dwelt upon it for thirty years, I never knew how deep and exquisite a
joy could lie in the assurance that one is _at home_ for ever. Again and
again I come back upon this thought; nothing but Death can oust me from
my abiding place. And Death I would fain learn to regard as a friend,
who will but intensify the peace I now relish.

When one is at home, how one's affections grow about everything in the
neighbourhood! I always thought with fondness of this corner of Devon,
but what was that compared with the love which now strengthens in me day
by day! Beginning with my house, every stick and stone of it is dear to
me as my heart's blood; I find myself laying an affectionate hand on the
door-post, giving a pat, as I go by, to the garden gate. Every tree and
shrub in the garden is my beloved friend; I touch them, when need is,
very tenderly, as though carelessness might pain, or roughness injure
them. If I pull up a weed in the walk, I look at it with a certain
sadness before throwing it away; it belongs to my home.

And all the country round about. These villages, how delightful are
their names to my ear! I find myself reading with interest all the local
news in the Exeter paper. Not that I care about the people; with barely
one or two exceptions, the people are nothing to me, and the less I see
of them the better I am pleased. But the _places_ grow ever more dear to
me. I like to know of anything that has happened at Heavitree, or
Brampford Speke, or Newton St. Cyres. I begin to pride myself on knowing