hours or so, they will be on foreign soil, among the French spires,
sabots, blouses, gendarmes, etc. These are trivial and fanciful
notions, but help to fortify what one has of the little faiths of
life, and what one wise man, at least, has said: that it is the
smaller unpretending things of life that make up its pleasures,
particularly those that come unexpectedly, and from which we hope but
little.

When all these thoughts were thus tumultuously busy, an odd _bizarre_
idea presented itself. By an unusual concatenation, there was before
me but a strictly-tightened space of leisure that could not be
expanded. Friday must be spent at home. This was Wednesday, already
three-quarters spent; but there was the coming night and the whole of
Thursday. But Friday morning imperatively required that the traveller
should be found back at home again. The whole span, the _irreducible
maximum_, not to be stretched by any contrivance beyond about thirty
hours. Something could be done, but not much. As I thought of the
strict and narrow limits, it seemed that these were some precious
golden hours, and never to recur again; the opportunity must be
seized, or lost for ever! As I walked the sunshiny streets, images
rose of the bright streets abroad, their quaint old towers, and
town-halls, and marketplaces, and churches, red-capped fisherwomen--all
this scenery was 'set,'--properties and decorations--and the foreign
play seemed to open before my eyes and invite me.

There is an Eastern story of a man who dipped his head into a tub of
water, and who there and then mysteriously passed through a long
series of events: was married, had children, saw them grow up, was
taken prisoner by barbarians, confined long in gaol, was finally
tried, sentenced, and led out to execution, with the scimitar about to