large end-window, and there were cross patches of light and shade
all down the vista, made by the unseen windows and the open doors
of the little sleeping-cells on either side. In about the centre
of the perspective, under an arch, regardless of the pleasant
weather, regardless of the solitude, regardless of approaching
footsteps, was the poor little dark-chinned, meagre man, poring
over the matting. "What are you doing there?" said my conductor,
when we came to him. He looked up, and pointed to the matting. "I
wouldn't do that, I think," said my conductor, kindly; "if I were
you, I would go and read, or I would lie down if I felt tired; but
I wouldn't do that." The patient considered a moment, and vacantly
answered, "No, sir, I won't; I'll--I'll go and read," and so he
lamely shuffled away into one of the little rooms. I turned my
head before we had gone many paces. He had already come out again,
and was again poring over the matting, and tracking out its fibres
with his thumb and forefinger. I stopped to look at him, and it
came into my mind, that probably the course of those fibres as they
plaited in and out, over and under, was the only course of things
in the whole wide world that it was left to him to understand--that
his darkening intellect had narrowed down to the small cleft of
light which showed him, "This piece was twisted this way, went in
here, passed under, came out there, was carried on away here to the
right where I now put my finger on it, and in this progress of
events, the thing was made and came to be here." Then, I wondered
whether he looked into the matting, next, to see if it could show
him anything of the process through which HE came to be there, so
strangely poring over it. Then, I thought how all of us, GOD help
us! in our different ways are poring over our bits of matting,
blindly enough, and what confusions and mysteries we make in the
pattern. I had a sadder fellow-feeling with the little dark-