"True, aunt; but you are a wilful wanderer, who should be forced
back into the right path."

"Spare me, I entreat you," replied Aunt Margaret. "You remember
the Gaelic song, though I dare say I mispronounce the words--

'Hatil mohatil, na dowski mi.'
(I am asleep, do not waken me.)

I tell you, kinsman, that the sort of waking dreams which my
imagination spins out, in what your favourite Wordsworth calls
'moods of my own mind,' are worth all the rest of my more active
days. Then, instead of looking forwards, as I did in youth, and
forming for myself fairy palaces, upon the verge of the grave I
turn my eyes backward upon the days and manners of my better
time; and the sad, yet soothing recollections come so close and
interesting, that I almost think it sacrilege to be wiser or more
rational or less prejudiced than those to whom I looked up in my
younger years."

"I think I now understand what you mean," I answered, "and can
comprehend why you should occasionally prefer the twilight of
illusion to the steady light of reason."

"Where there is no task," she rejoined, "to be performed, we may
sit in the dark if we like it; if we go to work, we must ring for
candles."

"And amidst such shadowy and doubtful light," continued I,
"imagination frames her enchanted and enchanting visions, and