the newspaper. Generally I leave it till I come back tired from my walk;
it amuses me then to see what the noisy world is doing, what new self-
torments men have discovered, what new forms of vain toil, what new
occasions of peril and of strife. I grudge to give the first freshness
of the morning mind to things so sad and foolish.

My house is perfect. Just large enough to allow the grace of order in
domestic circumstance; just that superfluity of intramural space, to lack
which is to be less than at one's ease. The fabric is sound; the work in
wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely and a more honest age than
ours. The stairs do not creak under my step; I am waylaid by no unkindly
draught; I can open or close a window without muscle-ache. As to such
trifles as the tint and device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference;
be the walls only unobtrusive, and I am satisfied. The first thing in
one's home is comfort; let beauty of detail be added if one has the
means, the patience, the eye.

To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it is
home. Through the greater part of life I was homeless. Many places have
I inhabited, some which my soul loathed, and some which pleased me well;
but never till now with that sense of security which makes a home. At
any moment I might have been driven forth by evil hap, by nagging
necessity. For all that time did I say within myself: Some day,
perchance, I shall have a home; yet the "perchance" had more and more of
emphasis as life went on, and at the moment when fate was secretly
smiling on me, I had all but abandoned hope. I have my home at last.
When I place a new volume on my shelves, I say: Stand there whilst I have
eyes to see you; and a joyous tremor thrills me. This house is mine on a
lease of a score of years. So long I certainly shall not live; but, if I
did, even so long should I have the wherewithal to pay my rent and buy my