AN OLD ROAD. 47 



eye at this moment, but especially one, in 

 which my feet, years ago, grew to feel at 

 home. It is an almost ideal loitering place, 

 or would be, if only it were somewhat 

 longer. How many hundreds of times 

 have I traveled it, spring and summer, 

 autumn and winter ! As I go over it now, 

 the days of my youth come back to me, 

 clothed all of them in that soft, benignant 

 light which nothing but distance can be- 

 stow, whether upon hills or days. This 

 gracious effect is heightened, no doubt, by 

 the fact that for a good while past my visits 

 to the place have been only occasional. 

 Memory and imagination are true yoke- 

 fellows, and between them are always pre- 

 paring some new pleasure for us, as often 

 as we allow them opportunity. The other 

 day, for instance, as I came to the top of 

 the hill just beyond the river, I turned sud- 

 denly to the right, looking for an old pear- 

 tree. I had not thought of it for years, and 

 the more I have since tried to recall its 

 appearance and exact whereabouts, the less 

 confident have I grown that it ever had any 

 material existence ; but somehow, just at 

 that moment my mouth seemed to recollect 



