We crossed a bridge above the roar-
ing mill-race, went up a lane, and en-
tered Arcadia. That was the way it
seemed to me. It was really a cottage
above a stream, where youth and love
dwelt, and honour and hospitality, and
the little house was to be exchanged for
a greater one where -- though youth de-
parted -- love and honour and hospital-
ity were still to dwell.

"Travel's a great thing," said my
uncle, as he helped me off with my
jacket.

"Yes," I answered, solemnly, "it is
a great privilege to see the world."

I still am of that opinion. I have
seen some odd bits of it, and I cannot
understand why it is that other jour-
neys have not quite come up to that
first one, when I heard of Aunt Ellen,
and saw the boy turn the surprised
somersault, and was welcomed by two
lovers in a little Arcadia.