September 15, 1888.


It is certainly very sweet to be at home again; to find oneself in
familiar scenes, with all the pretty homely comfortable things
waiting patiently for us to return--pictures, books, rooms, tree,
kindly people. Wright, my excellent gardener, with whom I spent an
hour strolling round the garden to-day, touched me by saying that
he was glad to see me back, and that it had seemed dull without me;
he has done fifty little simple things in our absence, in his
tranquil and faithful way, and is pleased to have them noticed.
Alec, who was with me to-day, delighted me by finding his stolid
wooden horse in the summer-house, rather damp and dishevelled, and
almost bursting into tears at the pathos of the neglect. "Did you
think we had forgotten you?" he said as he hugged it. I suggested
that he should have a good meal. "I don't think he would care about
GRASS," said Alec thoughtfully, "he shall have some leaves and
berries for a treat." And this was tenderly executed. Maud went off
to see some of her old pensioners, and came back glowing with
pleasure, with twenty pleasant stories of welcome. Two or three
people came in to see me on business, and I was glad to feel I was
of use. In the afternoon we all went off on a long ramble together,
and we were quite surprised to see that everything seemed to be in
its place as usual. Summer is over, the fields have been reaped;
there is a comfortable row of stacks in the rickyard; the pleasant
humming of an engine came up the valley, as it sang its homely
monotone, now low, now loud. After tea--the evenings have begun to
close in--I went off to my study, took out my notebook and looked