is that my pocket is full enough to let me have a holiday on a
liberal scale, without thinking of small economies. I may give
pennies to tramps or children, or a shilling to a sexton for
showing me a church. I may travel what class I choose, and put up
at a hotel without counting the cost; and oh! the blessedness of
that. I would rather have a three-days' holiday thus than three
weeks with an anxious calculation of resources.

April 8.--I am really off to the Cotswolds. I packed my beloved
knapsack yesterday afternoon. I put in it--precision is the essence
of diarising--a spare shirt, which will have to serve if necessary
as a nightgown, a pair of socks, a pair of slippers, a toothbrush,
a small comb, and a sponge; that is sufficient for a philosopher. A
pocket volume of poetry--Matthew Arnold this time--and a map
completed my outfit. And I sent a bag containing a more liberal
wardrobe to a distant station, which I calculated it would take me
three days to reach. Then I went off by an afternoon train, and, by
sunset, I found myself in a little town, Hinton Perevale, of stone-
built houses, with an old bridge. I had no sense of freedom as yet,
only a blessed feeling of repose. I took an early supper in a small
low-roofed parlour with mullioned windows. By great good fortune I
found myself the only guest at the inn, and had the room to myself;
then I went early and gratefully to bed, utterly sleepy and
content, with just enough sense left to pray for a fine day.

My prayer is answered this morning. I slept a dreamless sleep, and
was roused by the cheerful crowing of cocks, which picked about the
back yard of the inn. I dressed quickly, only suspending my task to
watch the little dramas of the inn yard--the fowls on the pig-sty
wall; the horse waiting meekly, with knotted traces hanging round